


A Star Sat Beside You

by ChapstickPenny



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Buddy roadtrip, Eventual Romance, Implied Criminal Activity/Backstory, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Low-stakes fun, Not Beta Read, Not a (Y/N) thing, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Reader's sex and gender not mentioned, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Steven and Reader don't really Get Along, left open for maximum self-inserting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 72,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23509186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChapstickPenny/pseuds/ChapstickPenny
Summary: “Don’t suppose you’ve got a helmet hidden on you?”“Oh? Whatever for?”You point to your forehead and tip your head towards hers. “It might be a good idea to protect your… jewelry.”“Oh, stars, of course!” She replies, rolling her eyes at herself. “What a shame it would be, to see such brilliance dulled by the unforeseen consequences of careless abandon.”“...Yeah.” You flip the kickstand and look back at the shop. “I’m sure they’ve got something in your size.”
Relationships: Connie Maheswaran & Steven Universe, Connie Maheswaran/Steven Universe, Steven Universe & Reader, White Diamond (Steven Universe)/Reader, White Diamond (Steven Universe)/Reader-Insert
Comments: 238
Kudos: 356





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Before we kick things off, there are a couple things you should know
> 
> -The reader character is pretty well traveled, and has a bit of a history in some of the places they show up in; that's important for a few things later on, but it's mainly for the sake of making them feel like an actual person with a place in this universe. It shouldn't show up too often.
> 
> -I've deliberately kept descriptions of the reader's physical appearance to a minimum, like the tags say, it's for the sake of self-insertion. Imagine yourself as a biker, and decide on what kind of motorcycle you'd ride, and what outfit you'd wear. Now make sure it includes padded jeans and a leather jacket, and we should be good for the rest of the story.  
> Aight?  
> Aight.

For the past who-knows-how-many years, your bike’s sidecar has been a chariot for nothing but old takeout, weird stains, and the occasional stow-away squirrel. You haven’t decided if an eight-foot tall glow-in-the-dark woman is an improvement or a sign of your standards getting even lower. She’s been riding with you for about half a day now, not saying a word since you found her at a “World’s Biggest Thumb Tack” exhibition a few miles south of the Great Northern border. You were both headed east, she needed a ride, and you had an empty seat. Normally you don’t associate with those Hollywood types-- you had her pegged for one, considering what she wore, how she spoke, and the fist-sized diamond she wore on her forehead --and you still don’t know why you were letting her tag along. She did seem a little… naive? Airheaded? Clueless? Most people with half a brain between themselves don’t opt for a “scenic tour to explore the intricacies of this strange world” (her words, not yours) without a little bit of security or forethought. Must be a rich person thing.

Now, you’re burning rubber on the open road, wondering who designed this woman’s outfit. She almost looks comical: a white leotard, white stilettos, white hair, unnaturally white skin, she’s even wearing a cape. The whole look is something straight out of a nineteen-twenties arthouse film. Where do they find these people? You don’t hold the height against her, no one can help that, but the way she’s forced to hold her knees halfway up her chest just to fit in the sidecar is enough to make you sorry for what she’ll be dealing with tomorrow. But, this was her idea, and you tried to warn her.

The moment the sun set, you started to wish she had warned you about the glowing. It was manageable in the day, but riding like this at night made you feel like someone was driving directly beside you with their brights on. You can’t imagine it’s been very fun for other drivers too.

“So…” you ask, the first to break the silence. “Is there any way for you to… turn that… down?” You nod your head towards her in reference to her entire body.

“Hmm?” She looks down at herself, “Oh, yes, I suppose I can.” She closes her eyes and brings her hands up to her sides, hums faintly, and slowly dims, eventually reaching a normal level of glowing for humans. When you first saw her it was daytime; you assumed that the glowing was a result of reflective clothing, something to scare off paparazzi and ruin their photographs. When it didn’t stop at night, you thought it might have been some kind of glow-in-the-dark fabric and make-up. Your current theory has shifted to voice-activated LEDs sewn into her clothing. It’s a work in progress. With that diamond on her forehead still shining, there’s probably some in there too, but you can’t get a handle on how she keeps it on her head with nothing holding it up. Invisible wiring hidden in her hair? It seems like a rude thing to bring up, and you’ve already pushed your luck with the glowing thing, so you decide to ignore it and ask her later. 

You drum your fingers against the bike’s handlebar as you wonder if you should say anything else. For someone who’s supposed to be touring the area, she’s spent an awfully long time just staring at the sky. You can’t bring yourself to blame her; people can see more stars out here in one night than most would see in their entire lives. For someone who’s probably lived in a city her whole life, and, up until about a minute ago, had been giving off more light pollution than an entire town, this is probably a bit of a culture shock. If she’s serious about going full cross-country, then it won’t be the last.

11:58. You scowl at your watch. You’ve ridden this way before, there should be a motel soon, but with how featureless this stretch of road is, it’s impossible for you to guess how soon “soon” is. You roll your shoulders and hope it isn’t too long.

* * *

You don’t even know her name. The realization hits as you round a corner and see a distant light come into view. Is it too late to ask now? Did you miss her saying it earlier? She hasn’t exactly been heavy on the details when she speaks, but, then again, neither have you. Did you ever tell her yours? She hasn’t addressed you by it, but she also hasn’t initiated any conversation since she asked to go along with you. You grimace, your expression unseen. 

You ease the throttle as the light focuses and the motel is revealed. It’s small, two stories, and the sign that advertises it is probably more expensive than the building itself; glaring and neon, it doesn’t even have a brand name, it just says ‘MOTEL!’ in the most obnoxiously bubbly writing you’ve ever seen. Strangely, it’s the only building for more than twenty miles in either direction. It’s an odd place, but you’ve stayed here before and found it nice enough for repeat visits. Hopefully Ms. Hollywood doesn’t mind lowering her standards for the night. For her part, she at least seems interested in the terrestrial scenery: her head is cocked to the side while she smiles at the sign. She brings her hands together and lightly raps her fingers against one another, then says, “Motel,” to herself, almost under her breath. It sure is, you think to yourself.

The parking lot is empty except for a white sedan. Gently, you put on the brakes and turn in, the crunch of gravel telling you the sidecar went slightly off road as you did, though your passenger doesn’t seem to mind, if she noticed at all. You park three spaces down from the sedan and a few steps off from the main reception. With the key removed, the quiet growl of the bike’s engine is slowly replaced by the sharp buzzing of neon, light bulbs, and the methodic tapping of moths drawn towards them. Crickets chirp, and you think you hear the yipping of a distant fox.

You swing yourself off your bike and look over to tell Hollywood to wait here, but you see that she’s already moved, now standing under a lightbulb while watching the moths near it with a contemplative grimace on her face. “Don’t go too far,” you mutter. 

The lot smells like ozone and petroleum, but the combination isn’t one you’d consider unappealing. Interesting, at worst. The main reception is dimly lit from the inside, but more lights come on as you pass a window and reach the door; a bell rings when you open it. The interior is carpeted in an ugly green and only lightly furnished: a half-empty vending machine stands near the door, some pictures of beaches and mountains decorate the tan walls, and a two-tiered metal desk sits against the right-most wall at the back of the room, with several filing cabinets and a closed wooden door behind it. A man sits alone, scribbling something on a yellowed piece of paper. He’s balding, getting to be overweight, and wearing an off-white sweater. You make a show of loudly wiping your feet on the mat to get his attention before walking up to him. You lean on the raised portion of the desk and look down at him. “Don.” He doesn’t respond. You nod and lazily reach over to ring the bell in front of him; he stops writing and pushes the paper to the side. He leans back in his chair and looks at you. 

“We’re on a first name basis now?” 

“Regretfully.”

“How many beds?”

“Two.” 

He nods. “So she’s not…” He raises an eyebrow and looks out the window. You follow his gaze and see your number two standing beneath the motel’s sign, looking up at it. She’s turned away, and you can’t see her face. You hear Don open a drawer and he drops a key in your hand. You look at him from over your shoulder.

“No.”

* * *

The carpet and walls of the rooms are the same color as the ones in the reception area; you’re glad you won’t have to look at them when the lights are off. Unfortunately, that won’t help with the faint smell of baking powder and musty carpet. You sigh, setting your bag down. You start ruffling through your items, looking for a few things. “Pick whichever bed you want,” you say, absentmindedly.

“Ah, yes. You sleep on them?”

You pause. Did you hear that right? 

“…Yeah?” you say, not entirely sure of your own answer. 

What does she sleep on normally, clouds?

“How quaint.” The springs of the bed next to the window begin to creak, and you hear a hand running over fabric. 

You stand and bring what you’ve found under your arm and over to the available bed. Hollywood has started poking the mattress and watching it rebound from her touch; you watch her watching it before she notices you, the two of you making the briefest of eye contact before you look away and spread your things over the bed. Before you are two maps and a laptop thicker than your forearm and almost as old as you are. You clear your throat to get her attention and nod your head towards the maps. In a single motion, she gets off her bed, straightens her clothes, and takes a very short step forward, closing the gap between the two of you. You’d forgotten how tall she is up close.

She’s just… looking at you. You’ve been undressed by someone’s eyes before, but this feels more like a dissection. Is she wearing contacts? Pupils aren’t supposed to look like that. She’s not moving. Is she even breathing? 

“What are these for?” 

The spell is broken, and you mentally right off the whole thing as “pretty weird”. Some might call this mean spirited, but you want to know what you’re working with. You place one map on top of the other and fold your arms. “I’d like you to point out on this map where you think we are right now.”

“We’re not lost already, are we?” she asks. “I thought you’d be a far more accomplished navigator.”

“No-- I--” Wait. Is she fucking with you? While you’re trying to pull a fast one on her? “No,” you say, “I just want to make sure you didn’t miss anything. If you’re looking for the scenic route, you’ve found it. Lots going on back there. That’s what you were looking for, yeah?”

“I suppose my focus was directed elsewhere, though I fail to see the purpose of this exercise.”

“No point,” you lie, “just wanna make sure we’re on the same page.”

“It only has one.”

Smartass. 

You toss the map of Russia to the floor, below it is one of the continental United States. You point out a small spot on the Northwest corner, about half an inch inland. “That,” you say, “is where we started. The Thumbtack.”

“It was rather modestly sized,” she replies, nodding.

A sizequeen, too? You blink, and push the thought out of your head. You trace your finger further inland by about an inch. “This is where we are right now.” You follow the highway about a half-inch further. “This is Bullgrover, the state capital. If we leave early enough tomorrow, we’ll get there by the end of the day, traffic depending.” 

“And what’s in ‘Bullgrover’?” she asks, the word almost stuck on her tongue.

“You’ll be able to pick up some longer term transportation, like, a train or something, I don’t think you’d fit on a plane… Then you can get to wherever it is you said you were going.”

“Beach City.”

You’ve never heard of it, but nod anyway.

“Does this mean you’ll be leaving my company?”

“…Yeah. I guess.” That’s certainly a nicer way of putting ‘dropping you like a sack of rocks at the first chance I get’.

“A shame,” she says, “I’ve found your companionship, however brief, rather enlightening.”

“You’re… Interesting too.” You don’t want to be rude, not out loud, but, ‘enlightening’?. Maybe she’s just being civil. You’ve made people hate you in less time than you’ve known her.

“Yet,” she begins, turning away from you then pacing the length of the room, her hands held together at the fingertips, “I can’t help but remember why it is we began traveling together. We share a destination, yes?”

“…Yeah?” 

“You are familiar with the methods of travel it would take to reach our common goal?”

‘Common’ might be stretching it, but you get the gist. “I guess?”

“Then I see no reason for our agreement to conclude so early in its making.”

You see no reason for it to continue in its current state when all you’re getting out of it is another mouth to feed, but you keep that to yourself and only look at her, waiting to see how she’ll continue. She looks at you from the corner of her eye, then walks towards the window and stares outside. Is she trying to bait a response?

A moment passes and neither of you say anything.

Still looking through the window, she speaks. “Have I done something to offend you?”

What. 

“What?”

“From a perspective of reason,” she answers, “I can find no fault in our arrangement. It is then that I must look within, to see from the eyes of emotion. Steven”--

Who the fuck is Steven?

\--“has taught me many things. From all I know and have learned, I must assume that I have done something to harm our standing. You have my… deepest sympathies, and most sorrowful regrets”--

It sounds like she’s reading this off of a card.

\--“for anything I may have done to damage your emotional well-being. You must know that, truly, I am sorry.”

Okay.

“You, uh, haven’t. Hurt my feelings, I mean. We’re good.” A part of you feels like you should be apologizing, but the rest of you is too confused to decide what for.

You jump when you hear a sharp clap from near the window; you look up and see Hollywood with an unnervingly perfect smile. “Wonderful! I look forward to the rest of our journey.” She slides onto her bed and begins to-- you assume, based on how she’s sitting --meditate.

Before she can fall into some kind of trance, you ask her a question. “Hey,” her eyes open and she smiles again, looking down on you. “I didn’t… I don’t think I caught it before. What’s your name?” 

“White Diamond.” Her eyes close, the smile fades, and her face becomes unreadable and still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions you've probably got by now:
> 
> Why is White Diamond tiny?  
> Rewatch Homeworld Bound
> 
> But WHY is White Diamond tiny?  
> See: Next Question
> 
> What is White Diamond doing on Earth?  
> Reader trying to figure that out is half the story, you'll have to keep reading


	2. Fanciful Fashion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get some grub before continuing your noble quest of yanking the chain of a(n unbeknownst to you) reformed alien warlord.

Nobody stares for very long. Inevitably, White Diamond’s eyes meet theirs, and the menus they hold and meals they weren’t going to finish become far more interesting than they had been a few moments prior. The two of you stand in the entrance, letting the loose door behind you swing on its hinges; the clicking sound it makes as it passes through the doorway fills the silence that has fallen over the diner since your arrival. Normally, you wouldn’t waste any time getting to a seat and ordering a meal, but you want to let the moment hang. It’s kinda funny. You push a heel back and the door stops with a final ‘click’ that echoes throughout the building. You saunter over to the nearest open booth, motioning over your shoulder for White to follow. 

She takes her time, looking over the patrons of every booth and table she passes, many of whom have already learned not to meet her gaze. Those who hadn’t are taught rather quickly. 

You’re already sat down and reading through the menu by the time White joins you, the normal hubbub and chatter slowly returning to the diner when she does. The table shifts under your hands, and you see her thighs are pushing against its underside, almost lifting it off the floor. For her sake, you hope there isn’t any gum stuck under there. 

“So, Hollywood,” she hasn’t said anything about the nickname yet, so you’re more than happy to keep using it, “how long have you been going by your stage name?”

“Stage name?”

“Y’know. ‘White Diamond.’”

“Oh, but that is my name. It’s everything I am, and all I was created to be. Though I am more than that now, it is a reminder of who I once was, and, if I am not careful of myself, who I may be once more.”

So she’s retired, then. Or out of a job. That would explain her little cross-country sabbatical. It’s also not the first time you’ve heard of a celebrity adopting their moniker as a legal name. “Right. So how long have you been using it?”

“Since I first came into existence.”

“And how long ago was that?” you ask, playing along.

“An age uncounted, long since the coming of the stars, and the death of creation’s birth have I known the cosmos, and through her, myself. My name is my being, and it is unaging and eternal.”

“Cool.” Some kind of new age spiritual thing, you’ve heard that spiel before. Hopefully this time it has nothing to do with a cult. 

You go back to looking through the menu. Thumbing through all the pages feels more and more like a waste of time when you realize nothing in it is going to look as appetizing as the waffles on the first page, so you set it down and decide to take in the atmosphere while you wait on the waiters. It’s another one of those “throwback Americana” types that looks straight out of the fifties. Even the staff is dressed up, but you’re the only customer that fits the look. Either you’re a sell out, or leather jackets just aren’t in style around here, and you’re not sure which idea you like worse. You cozy up with the booth’s corner and set your feet up on the table’s edge; this gets you a few dirty looks, but they don’t last long when they see who you’re sitting with. 

She’s staring at you.

It’s that same look from last night. And, you realize, from a few minutes ago, but now you’re at ground zero. Perfect smile, blank expression, eyes that pull you apart at the seams… You tuck your head into your shoulders, and try to look to her side instead of at her face. “Uh… You, uh, wanna talk about something?”

She folds her hands in her lap and her eyes open wider. If she was going to say anything, she loses the chance as a waitress walks up and asks for your orders. She avoids looking at White, and tries to hide a wince when she sees how you’re sitting. You tell her you’ll take the waffle meal and a coffee. White just looks at her. The waitress swallows and shifts her weight around, glancing between the two of you. She looks above White’s head and tries to smile back. It’s not very convincing. “Ma’am?” she asks. 

This whole thing was funny at first, but just coming off that look, you feel enough pity for the girl to bail her out. “Hey, Earth to Hollywood, this is the part where you order something. You ever been to a restaurant before?”

“No.” She’s still looking at the waitress.

Doesn’t seem like she’s ever left her house. “You gonna get something to eat?”

“I do not eat.”

She gives White a confused look, then turns to you, her expression unchanging. “She doesn’t eat,” you say, shrugging your shoulders. The waitress leaves, whispering something about rigged lots to a coworker she passes. White watches her until she disappears through the kitchen doors.

“Such diligent workers.” 

You start toying around with a salt shaker that catches your eye, twirling it between your fingers and tapping it against the table. You slide over to White, wanting to see what she does with it. She stops it with a finger and cocks her head to the side when she picks it up and holds it in the light. 

“I’m sure you just need sunbeams and rainbows to survive, yeah?”

The glass splits the light into fractals, reflecting off the table and the gem on her forehead, turning it into the world’s most expensive disco ball. Maybe it’s glued on. You wonder how long it would last before she’d have to reattach it. “Adequate exposure to photons born from starlight fuels my physical form, yes.”

“Figures.”

* * *

“This is the biggest we’ve got,” he says, handing the helmet to you. 

You turn it over in your hands and pass it to White. She raises an eyebrow while looking at it. It’s shaped like an old army soldier’s helmet, painted black, with both sides having the same decal: a flaming zombie making obscene gestures at the viewer while riding on a classic motorcycle, which is also on fire. Across the top of the helmet, there’s a rubber Mohawk, which, in a stunning display of creativity, is shaped like fire.

“And this is…” she tsks, “a standard design?”

You glance at the clerk, who glances at you, and you both look at White. “Absolutely,” you lie.

Frowning, she tilts her head forward and sets it on top; keeping her hands at the level of her shoulders she asks, “Like this?”

It sits on the tallest spike of her hair, angled to the side and looking ready to fall. “Uh, you gotta,” you pantomime pressing it down against the top of your head.

“Of course,” she replies, copying your movement. It doesn’t last, and her hair springs back into shape, almost throwing the helmet off with it.

“Try getting the straps when you push it down,” the clerk says. You nod in agreement.

She holds it in place with one hand, and tries to secure it with the other, but, even extended, the buckle fails to reach the bottom of her chin. She takes it off, holding it by the mohawk with her middle finger and thumb. “What a shame.” She looks as calm as ever, but you think you hear satisfaction in her voice.

“Sure you don’t have anything in the back?” you joke. 

The clerk sighs and takes the helmet back when White hands it to you, and you, him. “You could always custom order, but you’d have to call a specialist. That takes time, even normally. For her?” he waves a hand at White, who’s already walking away and looking at something else, “We’re talking a few months, minimum. You said you were doing a summer trip?”

“Yeah.”

“Unless you can find some other way of getting one that fits, that ain’t happening now.”

You chew the inside of your cheek as you mull over your options. Or, more accurately, your lack of. There’s still your original plan, you’ve just got to take her the rest of the way into the city, drop her off at a train station and hope for the best, but not even her death stare is enough to calm your fears about what might happen to her if she were left to finish this trip alone. As you think, a shop attendant has to stop her from walking directly into an active welding station; it doesn’t do much to instill you with any confidence. Even if you went along with it, taking her this far without a helmet was reckless enough, but to go unprotected in the city? Out of the question. Regardless of what you plan on doing later, she’s not leaving here without something on her noggin. 

Unfortunately, raw conviction doesn’t breed results. But, in cases like this, you’re more worried about practicality than what may or may not be technically legal, and seeing the workshop portion of the bike shop has given you an idea. You lean onto the counter and explain your line of thinking to the clerk.

A few minutes later, you’re sitting with White outside the shop, trying to remind her why this is necessary.

“You are aware of what injuries are, yeah?”

“Oh! I’m well acquainted. You can all be so very fragile.”

“You can be fragile too. No, wait, not just ‘can’, you are fragile, and I’d prefer a personal injury lawsuit over a manslaughter charge.”

“There’s nothing for you to worry about there, should my physical form be damaged beyond sustainability, I shall simply return to my gem to recuperate and emerge once more, whole and sound.”

Yeah, well, belief in reincarnation won’t save you from prison time. But… 

“Your diamond will fix you?”

“In a sense, yes.”

“And what if something happened to it?”

“It would be rather catastrophic.”

“So if you were in a situation where it could be damaged, you’d want something to protect it, right?”

“There is nothing on this planet that could place me in such circumstances,” she says, an odd amount of pride in her voice.

It was worth a shot.

“Look, if you’re taking a scenic tour by motorcycle, then this is just part of the look. It’s not as cool as the jacket,” you pop your collar to emphasize the point, “ but you want the full experience, yeah?”

She rubs her chin and furrows her brow in thought.

* * *

This whole side project has set you back two hours and twice the cost of a normal helmet, with Hollywood not even offering to reimburse you on the second point-- though, you remind yourself, this was your idea --but it’s finally done. 

And it’s really fucking ugly.

Welded sheet metal is fused together in an unholy union with spare padding and seat cushioning to create the gnarliest piece of gear you’ve ever had the displeasure of bearing witness to. The damned thing weighs almost ten pounds, which isn’t much in the hands, but after a few hours of riding? You hope her neck is stronger than it looks. 

Aesthetics aside, this thing could stop a bullet, and you’d be willing to bet someone else’s life on that. Which, you kind of are. 

You find her standing behind a sweating attendant and an equally nervous patron trying to buy a new muffler. The attendant sees you and twitches her head, motioning behind herself and towards White. You nod, and rest a hand on your hip. “Whatcha doin’ there, Hollywood?”

“Observing.”

“Observe this.” You hold the helmet out, and she glides over to you, her cape sliding along the attendant’s shoulder, who flinches at the touch.

White reaches out to grab the helmet, but pulls her hand back and almost sneers when she gets a better look at it. “Not a fan?” you ask, smirking.

“It’s…”

“Part of the look, remember?”

It’s odd, seeing a look on her face that isn’t “creepy statue come to life”, but you do think it’s pretty funny. You raise your eyebrows and hold the helmet out further. Gingerly, she takes it in her hands and runs a thumb along the seams. “Go ahead,” you say, “try it on.”

The faint raise of her eyebrows might as well be her on her knees begging to not have to do this, but you eagerly nod for her to continue. She hisses through her teeth as she slides the helmet across her forehead and down her full head proper. Her hair is pushed back and almost entirely concealed, and her diamond is completely hidden from view; with the helmet on, all that remains visible are her nose and her eyes, which are just as striking as usual. 

They’re almost creepier like this, actually. 

Now she’s not the only one with second thoughts. 

“And this is… The look?” If by that she means movie star bombshell with an iron meatball for a head, then…

You change your mind again, this is great. “Eh…” You scratch your chin and tilt your head to the side. “It’s missing something.” You snap your fingers and snatch a silver pen from the attendant’s shirt pocket, ignoring her “Hey!” of protest and motioning for White to crouch down. In your fanciest cursive, you scribble ‘WD’ across the forehead, with a stylized diamond drawn behind it. You step back to enjoy your work, flicking the pen back at the scowling woman who catches with her eyebrow and stuffs it back in her pocket. She grabs the customer by the shoulder and pulls him somewhere else to get away from the two of you. You wave them goodbye and turn back to White, framing her head with your fingers. “Now this is a red carpet look.” You spread your arms for effect. “Whaddaya think?”

“I can’t see what you did.”

Oh.

“....Yeah. Huh.”

You pull out your phone and fall against her shoulder, clicking your tongue as you take a picture of you both. You ease off and let her stand before holding it up so that she can see. “Get it?”

“It would be concerning if I didn’t.”

“Haha, yeah.” You motion for her to follow as you leave the shop. “Let’s get back on the road, I’m tired of standing around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The longest piece of fiction I've ever written was only 11 pages (measured on google docs), and with chapter, I'll have beaten that record with 14; I think I'm getting into a sustainable groove here, I hope I can keep this momentum up.
> 
> From this point, I'm going to try to make scenes last a little longer so that there aren't so many '****' breaks in the text, but we'll see what happens.


	3. The (kinda) Big City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Bullgrover!
> 
> Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >doubles your word count in a single chapter  
> Pssshh... nothin personnel.... uplode schedule.....
> 
> Yeah, this got a bit longer than I was expecting. I'm not going to make any promises about a consistent upload schedule or chapter word count, because, honest to God, I have no idea what to expect regarding that.
> 
> What I do know, and what you should to, is what kind of story this is going to be. The tags are accurate, but as for the general structure, if you've ever read the The Hobbit (and you should, if you haven't), it'll be something along that lines of that. Multiple, smaller, stories with the same characters connected by an overarching, end-game goal. Erebor for the short stacks, and Beach City for these two morons. We'll have to wait and see what happens along the way.

You twist the key and feel the rumble of the bike die beneath you. 

“And this is the city proper?” White asks, sliding her helmet off; her hair pops back into shape the instant it’s off. That must take a lot of product.

“Yeah.” You fold your arms and lean on the bike’s handlebar, letting her take in the view. She cranes her neck and looks over every building and skyscraper in view, scanning them from top-to-bottom then bottom-to-top, and repeating the process from there. It’s almost robotic, but you understand wanting to take the time to do it. There’s a lot to take in.

The light of the setting sun washes over the city, the skyscrapers reflecting it off of and amongst themselves, buildings becoming beacons, basking Bullgrover in the warmth of early summer. The first signs of the city nightlife have awoken: flashing signs vie for the attention of passing streetwalkers, the distant music of clubs and bars can almost be felt through the pavement, and the suit-and-tie of the day workers now shares the sidewalks with the colorful attire of party-goers and eccentrics. A man with a ten-gallon hat half his height walks arm in arm with a woman dressed like someone straight out of a Sword Sprinter knock-off. Two men around your age stand at opposite sides of the mouth of an alley, trying to pass a small ball between each other by bouncing it off their foreheads. They’re not very good at it. Dozens more crowd the sidewalks, some spilling into the streets, each individual as strange as the last. The two of you might fit in here.

Something catches the attention of your nose, a spiced garlic smell, and you turn to look behind, seeing a small pizzeria nestled between two larger buildings. It’s made from brick and features a moving sign above the doorway: a large, mustachioed Italian man pointing an arm at a pizza in his other hand. It’s not what you would call an original presentation, but with how many people are standing at the entrance, something inside must be going right. You consider taking a look later, once the dinner-rush has calmed somewhat. Right now, you’re more worried about finding somewhere to stay the night. 

White seems done with the sight-seeing, so you get off your bike onto the sidewalk and let her join you. “Anything catch your eye?” you ask. She only hums in response, pursing her lips as a small crowd parts around her, bumping into her sides as they walk past. She’s a full head and shoulders over the tallest people here, and several passer-byes glance at her; a few have the guts to stare outright. One of them, a short, dark-skinned woman, pulls her sunglasses down and points a finger at White, moving her mouth, but not speaking. White takes notice and slowly turns her head towards the woman. Shocked into speaking, she can only manage to get out, “You’re the… from the…” before losing her voice.

“Looks like you found a fan,” you snicker, lightly elbowing White on the arm.

She looks at you for a moment, then back at the woman; slowly, she slides an open hand through the air in front of her face, in what you realize is a very stiff wave. “Hello.” White smiles at her, still holding the hand up.

“Uh, I, uh,” the woman sputters. She pulls her sunglasses up, waves back sharply and mutters a quick, “Hi,” before she speedwalks away, looking down and blushing. Whether it’s in admiration or embarrassment, you can’t tell.

“What a curious interaction,” White says, watching her leave.

“Yeah, real funny. Let’s find somewhere to stay, try not to lose me in the crowd.” You wave your hand over your shoulder, telling her to follow, but you stop mid-step when you feel something grab onto it. A white, clawed hand rests atop your shoulder, a second is laying perpendicular across the first. You follow the porcelain arms up to a pair of lidless, glowing eyes peering down on you. 

She smiles and asks, “Why have you stopped?” 

Good question. “No reason.”

“Then shall we continue?”

You turn ahead and exhale from your nose. You can _feel_ her looking at you. It’s like waking up in the middle of the night, knowing you’re not alone, then turning on the lights to find a cat you don’t know staring at you from the foot of your bed. You don’t know whether to call it confusion or fear, but it’s not a feeling you find yourself fond of. Her hands are visible from the corner of your eye, uncomfortably long nails only a few, uncomfortable inches away from it. “Okay,” you whisper. “This works.” You nod and start walking. “Sure.”

You feel like a child being led by an overprotective mother, except the mother has the mentality of a four-year-old and the child is the one who has to lead her around while letting her think she’s in charge. Admittedly, that view might not be giving White enough credit, but then you remember the welder at the bike shop. _But_ , different people are intelligent in different ways, and you haven’t known White for very long. You tell yourself that she’s bound to be good at something, nepotism only carries people so far, you just haven’t had a chance to find out what it is. Still, every once and awhile, you steer away from the road to keep her a healthy distance from any cars. Just to be safe.

The sun touches the horizon, and the first stars appear in the sky. You’ve been walking for almost an hour now, and you haven’t found a single hotel. It’s not like your standards are very high, you’ve slept in the sidecar with a tarp pulled over it and called it comfortable, on more than one occasion, there just… aren’t any hotels. Any that you can find, technically, there’s bound to be at least one, but the distinction doesn’t make much of a difference to you right now. You almost consider swallowing your pride and downloading a map app on your phone when White’s hands fall from your shoulder, a feeling of unpleasant coldness left in their wake. You turn around and see that she’s stopped, staring at something you can’t see. 

“Is the city’s construction incomplete?”

You stick your hands in your pockets and stand beside her. “Ah. It’s a park.” The sidewalk splits off between two buildings and quickly transitions into a dirt trail headed into a modest-sized forest. It’s thick enough that you can’t see the other side, and the trees are tall enough to obscure any buildings that may lay on there. There’s a bronze plaque in the dirt where the sidewalk ends; you leisurely walk towards it and brush it clear with your foot.

_Bullgrover’s Bull Grove Park  
(We got rid of the bulls)  
Est. 1927_

You feel White standing behind you. “What is it doing here?” she asks.

“It’s a park,” you repeat. “Y’know,” she probably doesn’t, “for connecting with nature.” You turn your head towards her as you finish talking. That’s not the look you were expecting to see. She’s… Concerned? Lost in thought? It’s difficult to place the emotion, but it’s clear she’s thinking about something. Her brows furrow. Wordlessly, she follows the path into the trees.

She’s already gone by the time you even think to follow her. You jog after her, thankful that the path doesn’t split anywhere and that she’s as visible as she is. 

Passing the first of the trees is like stepping onto a different planet. There’s no underbrush, only trees whose names you don’t know. Though there are multiple kinds, they all seem to be the same height, only varying in the width of their trunks. A soft, dense layer of grass envelopes the ground, but the path you walk on is completely bare. A part of you forgets that you were just in a city.

The air gets colder the deeper you go, the trees seem to thicken and bend over the trail, and you start to feel turned around even though you’ve been moving on a fixed path. Has it really curved that much? The sky is blocked out utterly by leaves, and you realize that you’re alone. You don’t know when-- or even how --you lost White.

You slow to a steady walk. The path takes a slow curve to the left, and you stumble when you feel something hard underfoot. A stone, worn smooth, is embedded in the dirt. There are more of them. As you move forward, they grow denser and closer together, until the path is completely cobbled, held together only by the dirt beneath it.

Caught as your attention is, you don’t notice the bridge until you’re standing on it. It’s made from the same stone as the path, built in a simple arch with no railing. It runs over a small, shallow stream no wider than your arm is long. More of the same stones rest along its bottom. The water is very clear, and smooth enough for you to see your reflection. You stare for a moment. 

Neat.

But the path continues, and so do you. The stones grow further apart as you walk, and eventually, there is, once more, only dirt.

You see light up ahead and return to a jog, but it doesn’t last. On recognition, you slow down and stop beneath a lamp post. It’s old, at least, in design. You’re not an expert in turn-of-the-century light fixtures, but it looks to be from around that period of time. You watch the small flame flickering within, and run a hand along the iron pole. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and you step back. “Weird vibes out here, fellas,” you say to yourself. You roll your shoulders and rub where White was holding on. “Real weird.” 

It doesn’t take much longer to find her. The path turns sharply to the right, and you see White sitting cross-legged in a small clearing surrounded by a dense semi-circle of trees; her meditative expression from last night is replaced with a faint scowl, her eyes are closed, and every part of her body looks tense. You stop the instant you see her, careful to not make any noise that might interrupt whatever it is she’s doing.

Faintly, she asks, “What did you see here?”

You blink. “Uh… A bridge?” 

Her eyes open, and she turns to you, her face now blank. She doesn’t move at all. After a few awkward seconds, you tilt your head to the side, and she mimics the action. A look of recognition washes over her face, and she smiles. “Oh.” She stands and smooths out her clothes in a single, graceful motion. “You startled me!” She doesn’t look like it. She clasps her hands together and takes a step forward; you resist the urge to step back.

“Sorry. You kinda ran off, there.”

She looks around like she’s just realized where she is. “I suppose I was swept away in the moment.” She looks back at you. “I’m not connected.”

“What?”

“To nature.”

“What about it?”

“You said I would be connected to it if I came here.”

“I- Well, that’s not- It’s-” Not that easy? It is for you; all you have to do is hop on your bike and ride somewhere without people. Not the same for everyone? Of course it isn’t. What is? How do you explain this to someone who didn’t even know what a park was five minutes ago? You can’t just… sit on some grass for a few seconds and have a chat with mother nature then wake up and know what nirvana is. Still… This seems like something kind of important to her, considering how quickly she jumped at the concept, and, well, it’s difficult to get a read on her, but if you were in her shoes, you’d probably be more than a little disappointed at it not working right away.

You scratch the back of your neck and shrug your shoulders. “It takes time, especially if you’ve never done it before. It’s not really a…” you shake your head, looking for the words, “an easy feeling to _know_ that you’re feeling, y’get it?” 

White’s mouth flattens, and she looks between you and the grass. “I’ll take that into consideration.” Christ, you’re glad you never became a therapist.

“You might just need,” you hold your arms out, “a different environment, I don’t know. This place weirds me out, anyway.” White walks back onto the trail, and you put your hands in your pockets. “Feels like we’re being watched.” She crouches down, looking at something.

“We are.”

That’s only a little ominous. You walk over and squat down next to her.

“How disgusting,” she says.

You see what she’s looking at and agree, “Oh, gross.”

It’s a bird: tiny, featherless, and laying around like it can’t even walk. Then, you realize that it literally can’t, because its head is the size of its entire body, and it’s completely focused on staring at the two of you. It has one eye looking at either of your faces, it’s attention divided between you both. You lean to the right, and the one looking at you follows your movement while the other is completely fixed on White, who’s crouched down, motionless, seemingly transfixed by the animal.

It’s a baby, you finally realize. A little baby bird, fallen out of the nest. It makes a pathetic squawking sound and tries to crawl towards the two of you, but can only push against the dirt with its feet, helpless as it is. 

“What,” White waves a hand towards it, careful not to get too close, “is that?”

“It’s a bird. A baby,” you quickly add, just for clarity. “They fall out of their nests sometimes.” You begin scanning nearby treetops for any you can see, grimacing when you see the eye still following you, but it doesn’t look like there are any. “Usually it’s fine. The mother sticks close by, makes sure they’re alright.” You stand and broaden your visual search, but still can’t find one. “You just leave them, then. They find their way back. But…” you look back at it. That thing isn’t going anywhere on its own, and you haven’t seen any people out here so far, but the thought of some creep finding it or a distracted couple not watching where they step…

Yeah, no.

“Here,” you bend over and deftly scoop it out of the dirt. It wriggles in your hands and squawks again, but can’t move enough to actually get away. “Put your hands out,” you tell White. She stands and holds her hands at the level of her shoulders, far away from you, then raises her eyebrows when she looks at the bird. “Go on.” She looks at you, then the bird again, and slowly brings them out. “Now cup them together. Right. This is nature.” You release it in her hands, and almost smile when you see her cringe at the touch. “Connect with it.”

It wriggles around on her palms, then looks up at her face. White tries to smile back.  
After waiting a few more moments to make sure she doesn’t drop it, you turn away, satisfied, renewing your search. It’s darker now, almost night. Only a few, scant rays of sunlight break through the foliage, and you can’t tell how deep you are in this park. A faint breeze chills you, and you feel glad you’re wearing a jacket. You can’t imagine White is enjoying it very much. How does she walk around in a leotard all day? Is the body paint insulating her? Is she really just that pale? Questions for another time, you’ve got a bird to worry about. The idea of walking off the path is dissuading, but, as irrational as it might be, it’s enough to keep your search to the immediate area. Problem is, you’ve gone over the immediate area two and a half times now. You let your head fall back and sigh, closing your eyes.

They don’t stay closed very long; in your melancholic stupor, you realize you saw something above you. 

Directly above you.

The entire time.

“Ah.” White looks at you, and you point up. “Found it.”

On a branch overlooking the path, about ten, fifteen odd feet in the air, sits a twisted bundle of sticks pressed into the shape of a small bowl. 

“The nest?” White asks. You nod. “What do we…?” She brings her hands up towards you, sparing a glance at the chick from the corner of her eye. From the looks of it, if she has to hold it any longer she’ll throw up. 

“You ever climb a tree before?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

“No.”

“Then I’ll have to. I’ll get up there, crawl across,” you trace a path up and along the tree with your finger as you speak, “you’ll give me the bird, I’ll bring it home, and we’ll hope I don’t break my neck on the way down. That is,” you look at her, “unless you think you can reach it from here.”

“Oh, I’m sure I could manage.”

“Yeah, me too. Gimme a minute to get up there.”

You walk over to the tree and eye it up. You jump in place and shake your arms, loosening them up. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Three times. You twist your back and neck, feeling them pop a worrying number of times. You firmly grip the trunk, but step back when you remember to stretch your legs. Nothing too intense, you just don’t want them seizing up on you.

Alright. You grab the trunk again.

Showtime.

“What are you doing?”

You freeze, colder than ice, when you realize White has been watching you the whole time. The discreet look on her face tells you that any disgust she feels for what she’s holding has been far outweighed by the confusion she feels right now. 

“...Climbing the tree.”

“You’re still on the ground.”

You mutter a half-hearted explanation that dies on your breath. 

Whatever.

You rest your palm against the trunk and look up at the nearest branch. It’s only just out of your reach, and, by the looks of it, sturdy enough to handle a bit of rough housing. You take two steps back and crouch down, pressing the tips of your fingers into the grass. You inhale, then launch yourself forward and up, using the tree trunk as a stepping stool to give yourself the extra height you need to get a hold on it. You sway for a moment, then walk your legs up the tree and wrap them around the branch; you shimmy closer to the trunk and twist your body until you’re crouched on the bough like a monkey, then, you pull yourself up into the denser heights and hug the trunk as you step across other limbs to reach the side facing White and the bird’s nest.

“Oh!” you hear White say, “Humans are the descendants of tree-dwelling primates, yes? What a wonderful return to form.”

“...Yeah? I guess.” You look at her from over your shoulder. How does she know that but not what a baby bird looks like? “Where’d you learn that, Hollywood?”

“Oh, Steven has been a wealth of knowledge,” you assume she’s talking about the same Steven she mentioned last night, “but his little friend ‘Connie’ has been so insightful when it comes to Earth’s history. Did you know that this planet was once inhabited by reptilian creatures larger in size than your automobiles?”

Did she just ask you if you know what dinosaurs are? “Uh…” She’s probably excited about this too, so don't hurt her feelings. “Y’know, technically, you’re holding one right now.”

“Hmm? You said this was a bird. I’ve seen full grown specimens; they are not very large.”

“Well, not anymore.” you find the branch with the nest, and _very_ carefully, climb on top of it. “They got smaller. Real tiny. Most of them died. The big ones, anyway.” You wrack your brain for any information you can remember while trying not to fall, both as a way to engage White, and distract yourself from what might happen if you do. “The survivors were tiny. They need to be tinier. So they changed into that.” You wave a hand towards the baby bird, but quickly put it back on the branch when you start to lose balance. 

Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.

You straddle the branch, facing the tree, trying to figure out the quickest way down once you get the bird back.

White starts to speak. “Then, the nature of nature is change itself. To fall from grace, from heights unreachable, to strike the ground with the fury of a thunderbolt,” that’s uncomfortably topical, “yet survive. But not as you were. A new form, a new mind. A new being.” You lose focus on what she’s saying when you realize that you’re not alone up here. About two branches over is a crow, staring directly at you. It’s eyes, either from the shadowed darkness of the upper branches, or whatever shadowed darkness lies within its soul, are completely black, almost blending into the iridescent feathers on its body. White’s still talking, and you catch some more of what she’s saying, “...yet, so short-lived are they, the creatures of this earth…” the bird hops towards you and cocks its head. You try to shoo it away, but it just gets closer.

Can birds look angry?

Because it looks angry.

It ruffles its feathers and starts bobbing its head up and down, then spreads its wings and begins cawing at you. 

“Shoo! Bad bird!” It jumps onto the branch in front of you and gets louder.

“...stranger I may be to your world of…” Bird-related stuff, you mentally fill in, too occupied to focus on what she’s actually saying.

Aggressively, you start snapping your fingers in front of the crow, trying to scare it off, but this bird is a brave one, and it defies your will.

“I return you now, child of the skies. Though I have known you for only a moment, our bond shall last an eon.”

The crow starts flying in front of you, screaming as loud as it can. You shout at it, “Fuck off, you dumbass bird!” 

The violence escalates, and the bird dives directly at your face. You panic and slip from your perch, weightlessness taking hold, and a sickening nausea gripping your stomach. 

Your fall lasts less than a second, but that’s long enough for you to have regrets.

You hit the ground with an undignified _thwap_. The soft dirt and pillowy grass cushions you from any serious injury, but you suffer enough impact to knock the wind out of your lungs and leave you with a sore spot you know will bruise.

You lay there, digging your heels into the dirt as you try to catch your breath, until you gasp and remember how to breath. It’s rather enjoyable, not suffocating. You close your eyes and groan as you turn on your side and force yourself to stand. You shake the dirt off your back and tenderly touch about your torso, searching for any injury that might have slipped in, unnoticed. It looks like the only thing wounded is your pride. 

White seems fine. By the looks of it, she didn’t even notice anything happened. She’s standing, all dignified, smiling with closed eyes at a crow, that crow, perched on her finger; it looks at you-- and you’d swear on your life that it’s looking smug --then it flies up to its nest, where you see the baby is returned, already looking back over the edge. The crow nudges it away, and the two disappear. At least part of this went right.

You rub your lower back and walk over to White. She’s still looking at the nest, smiling. Her eyes widen when she notices you, and she claps her hands together. “You’ve found your way down.”

“...Yeah.”

“You have a remarkable range of abilities.”

“Thanks,” you grumble. “Let’s…” you point at the trail, “let’s get out of here, I’m tired of this park.”

White hums in acknowledgement, and the two of you return to the trail and begin what is hopefully a short trip back to the city. 

Gradually, the trees grow further apart, and you catch glimpses of a star-studded sky through the canopy. The wind picks up, pulling at your jacket and White’s cape. 

She begins to speak, but stays looking forward. “I’ve taken your advice into consideration, and, as enlightening as this experience has been, I must agree. This is simply not the nature that ‘connects.’ You’re an accomplished traveler, yes?”

“Mmhmm.”

“And we have many months before the summer’s end.”

Three isn’t exactly a lot, but you don’t feel like arguing semantics. “Yep.”

“Then I would like to see more before then.” 

You feel like you know what she’s getting at. “You want the scenic scenic route? A little,” you drag your finger around erratically across an imaginary map, “cross-country zig-zag?” 

She looks down at you and smiles. “Yes.”

You shrug. “That’s a lot of ground to cover.”

“Surely an optimized path could be found?”

Could? You’re already halfway through creating one in your head that hits half the Thirty-Nine. “Depends on what you want to see.”

She looks down in thought. You decide to give her some time to think it over. 

You hear a car honk and see the path join with a sidewalk running through a small metal arch. Looks like you’re through the thick of it.

You stop walking when a thought comes to mind. “Say,” you wonder aloud, “Hollywood, how’d you get that bird back up there?”

She turns around and looks back at you. “Why, I-” 

An all too familiar cawing fills the air and derails your train of thought; a black blur rushes by your head then circles you a few times before landing in front of White. She raises a hand to her chin and says, “Oh!” quietly, in surprise. The crow hops towards her and drops something it was holding in its beak. It jerks its head between White and the object, and caws softly when she doesn’t do anything. “What is it doing?” she asks.

The crow continues to look at her, expectantly.

You put your hands on your hips and chuckle. “It’s a gift. Take it.”

White reaches forward and grabs it with the nails of her thumb and middle finger. She holds it up against the last rays of sunlight, reflecting them onto the sidewalk and trees. Satisfied, the crow caws again, then takes off and flies away, dangerously close to you. White watches it leave, then turns back to the object in her hands. You step forward and try to get a better look, then ask, “What is it?”

Wordlessly, she holds her hand out. Resting in her palm is a small, silver coin with a diamond embossed in the center. “What do I do with it?” she asks you.

“Keep it, if you want.” On instinct, you turn around, and see the crow is sitting in a tree, watching you both. “But, uh, if you do get rid of it, make sure we’re far away from here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to whoever finds the Doom reference.


	4. Like a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've found a place to stay and settle in for the night.

The decision isn’t made consciously.

You’re laying on a bed, lazily switching through different television channels when you end up on a documentary about the Yellowrock State Park. It’s easy enough for you to watch while focusing on other things, so you grab your laptop from your bag and pull up a web browser, not planning on doing anything of importance. 

“...being a much smaller predator, the coyote flees at the sight of the wolves, sacrificing its prey in the hopes of survival.” The narrator speaks with a dull, droning voice. It’s almost enough to put you to sleep.

12:43 am

You sneer at the clock.

Almost.

You aren’t thinking when you close the laptop and look at White. She’s sitting on her own bed in the same cross-legged pose you’ve seen before, but her eyes are open, and she’s watching the documentary.

“...the Grey Wolves now in pursuit, the coyote flees into the mountains…” The camera cuts from the chase footage to a wide-angle shot of a range of forested, snow-capped mountains. White’s eyebrows raise slightly at the sight, her mouth parting in a small ‘o’.

“...now cornered, escape is impossible. Soon-” 

The television cuts to static, throwing harsh shadows across the walls and filling the air with a dead buzzing sound. You sigh and turn it off with the remote.

The room is dark now. The only light comes from the city outside; it slips in through the closed blinds and paints cool, purple streaks across the room and everything in it. They illuminate parts of White’s face, reflecting off her eyes and lips, framing them with the darkness of night. She sits serene and says nothing, but a faint look of disappointment is etched into her features. 

You aren’t thinking when you realize you’ll take her there yourself. It’s not a conscious decision. It’s a fact. One that sits in the deepest reaches of your mind, unrecognized by higher thought, yet known as truth all the same. You aren’t thinking when you realize that, if you’re taking her there, then you’ll be showing her everything you’ve seen along the way. That, if you do, you’ll take her places you’ve never been before, too. Why not explore together? You have the time. You aren’t thinking when you realize that if you do all that, then there’s no reason not to finish it. There’s no reason for you to not take her all the way. You know the country. You’ve traveled it more than most, why not share a journey with someone else? She needs the help. You need a--

Well. She needs the help.

All of this is decided in a manner of seconds, far before you can even realize it’s been thought at all. It stays there, in that hidden room in your mind, a place more shrouded in darkness than the room you find yourself in now.

White turns her head from the television and looks forward. Forward, towards you. Your eyes meet, and though her back is toward the windows, and that cool, purple light only highlights the top of her shoulders, the side of her neck, and the sharp angles of her hair, her eyes still shine. A shiver works its way up your spine as the two of you stare at each other. Your mind is too tired to understand what it sees, and a part of you wonders if this is just a dream. Her eyes close. A soft feeling of restfulness falls over you. It’s almost enough to put you to sleep.

So you let it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter one, think of it as an epilogue for act 1. Ch 5 is already mostly written, so it should come a bit sooner than the others have. 
> 
> Mostly unrelated, but I almost had a heart attack (but, like, a good one) when I saw someone that on twitter posted art based on this fic. Huge thanks to @crystal_moths, it made my week.  
> https://twitter.com/crystal_moths/status/1251565085442682880


	5. The Odd Ones Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After deciding to take White cross-country, you're on your way to your first detour destination.

THREE DAYS LATER

It sounds like a tiger. This isn’t the first time the thought has come to mind, but, just as the last, and every time before, it gives you a feeling of power like nothing else. You grip the handles tighter, shift gears, and twist. The motorcycle growls in response and drags you forward; the wind beside you screams in your ears and the road beneath becomes a blur.

You’re on a highway riding south, west of the Rockies and east of the California basin. About a half-hour ago, the grass started getting sparse and the ground turned red. The only things keeping you company out here is your bike, the cacti, and the (presumed) movie-star two feet to your left. She might be royalty, actually. Or the head of a cult. You could ask, but you find entertaining all the theories you come up with more enjoyable. She gives you plenty of material to work with. 

If White noticed you putting on an extra twenty miles an hour then she isn’t showing it. She’s been sitting in the same position all day: knees up to her chest, hands folded in her lap, and her body facing straight ahead. Granted, the sidecar doesn’t provide much space for creative seating, but she hasn’t even moved a finger. Maybe she’s meditating. It’s easy for you to fall into a sort of trance when the roads get like this, all empty and clear, with no turns to worry about or other cars to focus on, for all you know, she’s got her eyes closed, head empty, and is halfway to enlightenment. 

As nice as that seems…

You run your eyes over the dash and twist the throttle, then watch the needle on the speedometer slowly turn to the right. It’s easy to imagine a trail of fire being left behind on the asphalt when you can feel the seat and air getting warmer from the power of the bike. If you squint your eyes, you can almost pretend there’s smoke coming off the wheels.

Yeah. This is better.

On the horizon, an orange haze comes into clarity, and you start to pick out the shapes of several very large and very colorful rock formations. They dot the landscape and tower above all else; going through a collection of them feels like traveling through a forest cut down by giants.

At the speed you’re going, it doesn’t take long for you to get close enough to notice something else. At the base of the nearest butte-- you smirk when you remember the name --there’s a white speck that comes into focus as a small, single-story building. If your memory of the map from the last motel is right, that should be the gas station. You tap White’s shoulder with the back of your hand. She turns to you, an eyebrow raised. You point to the building, and she watches it as you make your approach. 

The bike’s mirrors don’t show any cars behind you, so you let go of the handles and rest your palms on them as the bike begins to slow. The well-used nature of the road becomes more apparent at these speeds. The paint is faded and cracked, almost as badly as the asphalt itself, and you have to coast out of the way of a pothole that you wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. 

Your “exit” is in even worse shape than what you’re on now. With how little pavement is left, you’re not sure it qualifies as a road, and you decide to do most of the braking on the highway instead. The bike grumbles as you grab the brake and the exit approaches;  
you turn to the right, and then the bumping starts. Your whips forward and your teeth slam into each other. You force your jaw to stay open with a groan that you can’t hear over the noise; you’re jostled in your seat, dust and dirt is kicked up all around, almost blinding you, and a silent scream fills your mind when you realize what this must be doing to the bike’s suspension.

White’s illusion of control is broken: her legs are splayed apart, one almost falling out of the sidecar, her hands are latched to the rim of her seat, and her entire body bounces in an opposite rhythm with the rig. Every time she falls, the seat rises, striking her and sending her back into the air. She might be saying something, but you can’t hear anything over the clatter.

It all goes on for far too long. When it comes time to leave, a little off-road riding probably won’t hurt anyone.

It can’t be worse than this, you think, before your head almost collides with the dashboard.

The exit ends abruptly, and the chaos, with it. It cuts from broken road to much-welcomed gravel that gives a satisfying crunch under the wheels as you pull in. You stop in the middle of the lot, holding the brake and digging your heels into the gravel. You twist the key and wait for the rumble of the bike to leave your ears. 

White is frozen in a state of dishevelment, her eyes open wide. She slides a leg over the sidecar’s edge and pulls herself out, her composure returning as she straightens up to her full height. She slides her helmet off with the tips of her fingers and carefully places it in the center of her seat. She holds her hands together and clears her throat, then says, “Never do that again.”

She’s smiling, but you get an inclination that it isn’t entirely genuine. You give her a thumbs up, but she’s already walking off.

“I didn’t like it either,” you mumble to yourself.

The building is utilitarian in design, and has several cars parked in front of it along with an open gas pump in the center of the lot. An old, rusted out semi sits angled in a rut near the edge; it’s wheels are all shredded, and shrubs are growing inside the open cabin. Nothing on the outside helps identify the location more concretely, it only has a beat-up rectangular sign on the roof that says “Jannett’s” in faded red text. There’s an ice-machine on the left side of the building, so that’s pretty cool.

White’s already off looking at the nearest butte, holding her hands on her hips as she analyzes it. You swing yourself off the bike and walk up to her. “Y’know what these are?” you ask, absentmindedly.

“Natural phenomena, a geographic formation: the result of a more resilient cap-rock remaining after the weaker sediment surrounding it has been eroded away. Granite over sandstone, in this instance. Though, as you can see in the columnar structures on the right-hand side, there may be traces of basalt. As they’re embedded within the granite, and a different form of igneous rock, the basalt would have formed as a result of magma seeping through cracks in the already formed granite before cooling there and taking on the shape you see now. Is this region still volcanically active?”

You blink. “...No?” 

“A shame. Still,” she waves a hand at it, “this makes for a remarkable vista.”

The butte stands a sentinel above the rocky earth, alike it in their bearing of the colors of the setting sun. Cacti and shrubbery are scattered across the ground, giving it life in color and being; a small bird darts between them, seeking refuge in their shade, while a hawk soars overhead below wispy clouds, it’s brown feathers standing out against the pale blueness of the sky. 

* * *

The inside of “Jannette’s” is just as plain as the exterior. The floor is carpeted, you can’t imagine why, though well-kept. The large, dust-covered windows on the front wall provide a warm, diffused lighting that accentuates the lazy feeling of calm afternoons. The seating comes in the sole flavor of fold-out tables and chairs, most of them pushed up against the walls, with only a few taking up actual floor space, all of them placed haphazardly with no real sense of order. A group of grandmothers sits at one, idly chatting amongst themselves while knitting a large quilt. A man and a woman are playing a game of cards together, laughing, while a short-haired child plays with a toy robot beneath their table. There are about a dozen other people scattered among the tables in different sized groups; the only thing they all have in common is that no one is sitting alone. 

White glides over to the table of older women. She stands in front of them not speaking, and their conversation stops as they each begin to look up at her, no one saying a word. You’re two seconds away from apologizing to them and dragging her off when she asks what it is that they’re making. They smile, and begin to explain what the quilt is for and all the intricacies behind its design and creation. A woman in a green cardigan grabs White’s hand and sits her in a nearby chair, then starts pointing at a portion of unthreaded yarn. The details are lost on you, but it does look nice.

Your stomach growls. With White occupied, now seems like a good time to scout out some grub.

There’s an opening on the far wall, with what looks like a kitchen behind it. No one pays you any attention as you weave through the tables and search for some kind of menu near the window. The walls are completely bare. You lean on the counter and look into the kitchen; it’s well-lit and incredibly white, a stark contrast to the room behind you. You glance around, trying to see if anyone is inside. It doesn’t even look like it’s being used. You grab the windowsill and lean in, hoping for a better look.  
You conclude that it is, in fact, an empty kitchen. At least they won’t have to worry about having too many cooks spoiling the food.

You turn to the right and find yourself face-to-face with an old woman who doesn’t look like she appreciates your snooping. She wears a stained apron and is holding a large pot against her hip. The two of you stare at each other, neither blinking or looking away. Confusion, on your part, and, you suspect, displeasure on hers.

“Jannett?” you guess.

“No.” The word is spoken curtly, even for one already so short.

You nod, then rest on your elbows, still sticking your torso through the window. “You guys do food here?” You grin, and try to look charming.

She rolls her eyes and walks off to the left, setting the pot somewhere you can’t see. She comes back and stands in front of you, forcing you to lean away to keep from getting too close. “You are new here.” She speaks in an accent you can’t quite place, but it sounds somewhat Mediterranean. And grumpy.

“That obvious, huh?”

“Yes.”

You shrug your shoulders. “Going back to food…”

She holds up a hand, then reaches down and brings up a piece of typed-out laminated printer paper and hands it to you. You shake out a crease and enjoy the wobbling sound it makes. It has a list of all the food you’d expect from a cheap burger joint, but none of them have any prices listed.

“How much for the hot dogs?” you ask.

She reaches out of sight and pulls out a paper plate with three lumps of tin foil on top. It’s not difficult to guess what’s inside of them. “You do not pay here.”

You look over your shoulder to see if you missed something on the way up. “Is there somewhere else, or…?”

She rolls her eyes again. “You do not pay,” holds her arms out and gestures broadly, “here.” She jabs a finger at your chest. “No money,” she emphasizes.

Well… Alright. You thank her and take the plate, and she waves you off before going deeper into the kitchen, back out of sight. 

You snake your way back to White. As you get closer, you hear one of the women with her is talking; she has long, straight grey hair and wears a pair of overalls with a black sweater beneath. She says something about how a boy, her grandson, she specifies, took a gap year before college and traveled along the west coast. 

“That sounds much the same,” White says, “though a year seems an awfully short time. Steven has been on his for nearly that long. In fact, his little expedition was the inspiration for my own.” The women all nod, and you slide into a seat next to White.

They all look at you, and a short-haired one leans towards White and says, “This must be your ‘navigator.’” She says the word like it’s a secret they’re both in on.

“Yes,” White responds with a nonchalant smile.

The women all smirk and look amongst themselves, speaking without words. 

“The… accomplished navigator?” One of them asks.

“Who’s skilled at riding things?” Another adds.

“With a knack for getting on top of tall objects?” One says, looking White up and down. You distract yourself with one of the hot dogs as the innuendos continue. Your eyes widen in silent alarm, and you pretend to focus on the quilt’s patterns. Your sense of time is warped beyond reason: you can’t hope to guess how long it lasts, but whatever the answer is, it’s not short enough.

White continues to confirm what they say, with increasing confusion in her voice. “Those are all ways of repeating what I said before, yes.”

The novelty seems to wear off, and they return to quilting and petty gossip. White seems happy enough to sit and now only listen, so you offer her one of the hotdogs, not expecting her to take it. It’s out of formality, mostly. Yet, she does, grabbing it between her middle two fingers and thumb then looking down at you with a raised eyebrow.

You hold yours up, showing how the foil is peeled back revealing the food inside. “Like a banana,” you say, mouth half-full. 

She hums in acknowledgement and continues to study it.

“Dear,” the long-haired woman in overalls says, looking at you, “Ms. Diamond here has told us all about her desperate need for a companion.” You smile as she talks, cringing on the inside. “But we’re curious.” Some of the women nod in agreement. “Why is it that you decided to take her on this adventure?” She side-eyes White, who is slowly picking at the foil around the hotdog, then leans over the table and whispers, “Besides the obvious?”

“Obvious?” you ask.

She sighs and falls back into her chair. She looks at the woman to her right. “And they say we’re the prudish ones.” Several of them laugh.

The conversation moves along, and you’re more than happy to forget that you were ever the focus. 

* * *

You had gone outside to work on your bike after the gossip of old women became too much for you to listen to, expecting White to follow within the hour. But, after several passed, you went back inside and found her happily sitting at another table, only watching the others there, with them seeming oblivious to her presence. 

You’ve been leaning on a wall near the door for several minutes, not wanting to interrupt while still making it clear you’re ready to leave. The child from under the table, now running throughout the room and brandishing a toy ray-gun, points the weapon at you and fires, providing the sound effects herself. You play the part and pantomime a hit to your shoulder; your head rolls forward, chin against your chest, and you sigh as the air escapes your lungs and you face your unavoidable imaginary death. She squeals with joy and runs away laughing, while the man who was playing cards tells her not to get too loud. 

The people White sits next to are dressed in bright orange vests, and heavy boots; hard hats are scattered on the table and floor beneath them. They whoop and holler after every jeer or jab aimed at one another, erupting into laughter at the simplest of jests. White seems their born opposite, almost demure in comparison to their uninhibited boisterousness. To their credit, they try to include her. Jokes are left open for her to close, questions that are not-so-subtly directed at her are left hanging for her to answer, and vaguely relevant stories are told in the hopes that she’ll chime in with experiences of her own. Not even knowing she’s drowning, White either completely ignores the attempts at intervention, or waves off the life preservers with a tilted head and a smile. You drum your fingers against your arms, waiting for her to catch on and keep up. 

She doesn’t.

The laughter, talking, and livelihood of the table sputters and dies beneath White’s unflinching gaze. In a matter of minutes, the group goes from the loudest out of any, to near silence, broken only by muffled coughs and awkwardly cleared throats. 

They’re not alone: not a single person in the building is speaking. They pick at cold food, glance at White, or stare outright. Has she done this to every other table? You almost groan at the thought. You hiss through your teeth and try to find joy in the fact that this isn’t because of something you did. Not directly, anyway. 

At least the kid is having fun. She’s climbing on the back of a chair making animal sounds while the woman sitting in it tries to shush her with little success.

If White’s going to let herself drown, then you’ll just have to drag her back to shore. You walk forward and rest your hand on an empty table. “Hey, Hollywood!” Everyone turns and stares at you. You throw some finger guns and try to put on a fancy grin, but the confidence doesn’t quite come off. “Let’s blow this joint, yeah? Crowd’s a bunch of stiffs.” You inwardly wince at your choice of words, and get more than a few odd looks. 

White shakes her head and says, “Oh, I’d hate to leave so early. You should join us! These ‘construction workers’ are telling the most marvelous stories. I think you’d like them.” They don’t look very excited about her suggestion. 

You try again. “Heard it all before.” You look at the people sitting next to her. “You’re just trying to impress the fancy lady, amiright?” The only response you get is the scratching of necks and the odd nervous laugh. White is still sitting, oblivious.

The air gets thicker than an inner city smog as you fumble for the right way to get out of this with less success than your stint as a… Well, that’s probably not the best thing to be thinking about right now. The thought of grabbing her by the ear and dragging her out crosses your mind, but before you can decide whether it’s worth acting on, the old woman in overalls walks over to White and whispers something in her ear.

“Oh!” She holds a hand over her open mouth and looks at you. “Why, I had no idea!” She rises off the chair and clears the distance between the two of you in less than five steps. She gently pushes you by the shoulder and guides you towards the door. “You simply must be more direct about matters such as this; hiding behind double meanings will help no one.” She holds a finger up and smiles. “That’s what Steven has told me! Direct communication is the key to healthy bonding.” Your face twists in confusion, and you turn your head over your shoulder and look back at the older woman, who shrugs, then sits back down. Everyone begins to speak again, trying to ignore the two of you as you leave. 

When you hear the door close, you let out a deep exhale, with a warm, gust of wind striking you in retaliation. You shake your head clear as White walks you towards the bike. After gently removing her hand from your shoulder and stopping, you ask, “So. What did that lady tell you back there?”

She looks down at you and smiles. “She was kind enough to inform me of your terrible fear of large groups of people.” 

Your what?

She rests the back of her hand against her forehead and sighs like a thespian. “I simply could not stand by and let you suffer in silence, as brave as your attempts to mingle with your fellow-”

“My what?” you say, cutting her off.

“There’s no reason to be shy-”

“Right. Okay, sorry, but we’re actually going to nip that in the bud right now.” You sputter.

“What do you mean?” 

“She lied. They were trying to get rid of us.”

“Why would they do such a thing?”

“That was probably a… Private party or something, I don’t know. We overstayed our welcome.”

White looks back. “Surely there are more honest ways of communicating your intent.” 

“Probably.”

You sigh and rub your eyes, ready to move on. Your shoulders relax when you see the bike, and you wave for White to follow. She does, for a moment, then stops and looks down. It’s that kid again. She must have followed you outside. She’s staring up at White, tugging on her cape. 

“Oh?” White asks.

The child stops pulling, but doesn’t let go of the sparkling fabric. “You’re pretty.” 

White laughs, a light, lilting sound that dances through the air. “Well, of course I am, little one. I shine with every color of the light. It’s only natural my brilliance should be apparent to any who bear witness.”

“Me too,” the girl says, “because one of my eyes is blue and the other one is green, and I wear a red bracelet, and my dress is white like yours, and my teacher said that that means it’s every color.”

“So they are, and so it is,” White agrees. “Tell me-”

The kid cuts her off. “How do you keep the big diamond on your head? My mom has a diamond on a ring, but it’s glued on and has tiny metal bits holding it and you don’t. Are they inside your brain?”

It’s a good question.

“No.” White says.

“Is it magnets?”

“No.”

“Is it tape?”

“No.”

“Did it get stuck after you fell on it?”

“No.”

That rules one thing off your list.

“Oh. Is it magic?”

White purses her lips. “In a sense, I suppose. You’re very… Inquisitive.”

“I’m not actually good at quizzes but my mom says I should let people say nice things about me because it’s polite.” The child rocks on her heels as she speaks.

“I see.” White bends forward. “Would you give me a moment?”

“Okay.”

White turns to you. “Should this child not have a…” she flicks a hand, looking for the word, “caretaker? Then I fear for its prospects. I don’t believe our current method of travel can support a third party.” 

Your first thought is that it can barely support the two of you as it is; the realization that her first thought on finding a lone child is to kidnap them isn’t quite as alarming as it might have been a few days ago, but you decide to put an end to that line of thinking sooner, rather than later.

“Yeah, I’m sure there’s someone around here.” You look around, trying to see if the adults she was with came out as well. You look at the kid. “There’s, uh, there is someone around here, right?” They only watch you for a moment, before going back to focusing on White.

“Lex!” You hear someone shout. “Lex! What are you--? Oh, sweety, leave them alone!” A woman in a denim jacket, the one playing cards earlier, runs towards you and crouches in front of the kid, running her hands along her face and through her hair. 

“Hi,” Lex says.

The woman sighs. “Yeah, hi to you too.”

White takes the opportunity to pull her cape out of the child’s grasp.

The woman picks Lex up and starts to walk away, before turning back. “I’m sorry, it’s just--” she closes her eyes and sighs. “Slippery kid. You never know where they are half the time, and when you do, they’re off doing something you don’t want them to.” She half-smiles at you, and you return the gesture with a nod. She does the same to White, but freezes up when she sees her eyes. You hear her swallow.

“Your child has very striking eyes.” White smiles.

“Y-you too.” She steps back and power-walks away, returning to the inside of the building. Lex waves at White through the window, and White smoothly imitates the motion.

You let yourself sigh and rub your eyes. When you open them, White is standing in front of you.

“You ready to leave?” you ask her.

“I believe I’ve learned what I can from here, yes. As well,” you gestures behind you, “I desire to see more buttes.”

Your face is drooping and tired, but you don’t stop the juvenile smile that grows across it.

“You and me both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this chapter is just setting up the next one, so if it seems like nothing really happened, that's because nothing really happened.
> 
> And I hope this is coming through the writing, but for White's characterization, I want her to be intelligent, but out of her element. She's not stupid by any stretch of the imagination, but she's already out of her depth when it comes to dealing with emotions and real relationships, add on to the fact that she dove head first into an alien culture she knows next to nothing about, and you end up with someone who REALLY doesn't fit in. I think she recognizes herself as the cause of people getting nervous, but doesn't understand that it's because humans don't take well to her method of social "interaction". She just thinks it's because she's ~*~White Diamond~*~ and all the silly little humans are simply awed by her sheer presence. Her little bout of highschool geology makes sense to me because she's the matriarch of a species of aliens whose whole MO is planetary assimilation, I think she's know a thing or two about how they operate on a geologic level.


	6. A Brief Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did somebody order some Connverse?

Steven Universe feels the sun on his face, and he smiles. It’s not wide, or open, or even a smile that can be seen without looking for it, but it is genuine, and the joy behind it is true. 

He rubs his shoulders against the grass beneath him and cozies up with the ground like it’s his old bed. He focuses on the sound of a songbird in a tree nearby. With its melodic singing, and that he can already feel its warmth and see its light through lidded eyes, he knows the sun is rising.

If he had his way, he’d still be in bed for another hour; it was Connie’s idea to get up so early. “To watch the sunrise and get the most out of the day,” she had said. But now, he was almost asleep again as she lay across his stomach while playing a video-game, with neither of them focused on the sun or doing anything remotely productive.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

He traces a finger along Connie’s back, her shirt cresting around it like water against a boat. 

He doesn’t even know what state he’s in. Not that it matters, really. All it would take to find out would be a GPS check on his phone. Or, he could ask Connie. She’d know. But he doesn’t, and he doesn’t think he will.

“You know that tickles, right?” He hears the smile in her words.

“You know you’re my favorite person in the world, right?” He keeps his eyes closed, but can’t help his own smile growing as she giggles.

“Stop it!” She pokes his side. 

“Only if you stop being so wonderful.” He tries to smirk, but it breaks into joy when he opens his eyes and sees her grinning up at him.

“I’m trying to keep sugar out of my diet, if you don’t mind,” she says, her eyebrow raised.

Steven only laughs, then he grabs Connie around the waist and holds her back against his chest. She laughs with him, and he rests his chin on her shoulder. “Whatcha playing?” he asks.

“Ultra-Quest 4. I’m trying to figure out a puzzle before I go through with it, I don’t want to reload if things go wrong.”

“What kind of puzzle?”

He hums in acknowledgment as she explains, not paying attention. Instead, he watches her speak: the way she moves in tandem with her words, how her lips frown with determination as she describes the intricacies of the puzzle system; he can feel the fire in her eyes when she talks about the motives behind the game’s villain and how they’re a perfect example of a character with good intentions going too far. It’s all information lost on him, but Connie’s passion for it radiates off her, and Steven gladly shares in it. 

He never wanted this to end.

Of course, it does.

For a second, he looks away from her face and down to the console she’s holding. It’s old, and the screen doesn’t emit any light of its own, nor does it have any color. Connie walks her character up to a door and activates it. It opens, the avatar walks through, and a new area loads in. Unfortunately for Steven Universe, the game’s transitory effect for loading in new areas involves a diamond growing out from the center of the screen. He doesn’t know what happens after that, because that shape is all it takes to remind him.

He groans, the sound more akin to a whisper than anything, and slumps against Connie’s body, pushing her forward. He pulls himself off, not wanting to disrupt her, but it’s too late.

“Steven? What’s wrong?” She sets the console down and twists in his lap until they’re facing each other. The concern on her face wounds him in a way he wishes were physical.

It’s nothing, he wants to say. But it isn’t. He knows that, and she already does too. 

A year ago he might have put on a brave smile and brushed it off as teenage angst and hormones, but he knows better than to lie. Stars know he’s learned his lesson.

His face slumps with his shoulders. “It’s…” he bites back the ‘nothing’ and continues, “...White Diamond.” His mind turns to the Diamond Communicator stuffed in the bottom of his duffel bag.

Connie’s face hardens at the name, but shifts into a sympathetic concern when she looks into his eyes. “Is her… Trip going okay?”

“I don’t know,” Steven sighs. “I told her to call me if anything goes wrong, and she hasn’t so…” he rolls his hands, not knowing how to continue.

“Good?” Connie asks.

“Yeah. I think. I’m not really worried about her, though. It’s just…”

“She can’t control humans, right? And there aren’t any other gems on that side of the country. Would she hurt anyone? _Could_ she? It’s not like she can accidentally step on people right now.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I just don’t know enough. I still don’t think it’s a good idea, but she was so,” he brings his hands up in a wordless emphasis, “about going, y’know? I haven’t ever seen her like that before.”

Connie looks down, turning the console in her hands. “It could be good for her.” She doesn’t sound completely convinced by what she’s saying.

“Maybe.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “But that’s not everything. I asked her to call me if anything goes wrong, but only if things go wrong. Otherwise, I think she’d be doing it all the time. But,” he brings up his pictures, and Connie moves to sit beside him to get a better look, “I don’t know what her idea of ‘going wrong’ is, so I asked Ronaldo,” Connie’s face scrunches up at the mention of his name, “I know, I get it, but, I asked him to keep an eye out for anything involving tall, glowing women.”

“And he’s sent you a thousand different things that have nothing to do with her.”

“I wish,” he says, pulling up the first images. “Look at this.”

It’s a photo of White, taken from behind. She’s walking in a city, a small crowd of people parting around her. Her hands are on the shoulder of a person, mostly obscured from view.

“He says people have been posting pictures of her on a blog he helps run. Except…” He swipes to another photo. It’s White, inside of a pizza parlor, crammed into a booth. A jacketed arm can be seen resting on the table she’s seated at, but the rest of the figure is out of frame. He swipes again. “Apparently, this is the oldest one, from about five days ago.” White Diamond stands in a pine forest beneath a thumbtack, a very large thumbtack, with a plaque beneath it that reads “World’s Biggest!”. She’s talking to someone: a person in a leather jacket and heavy, padded jeans. Their face is obscured behind a motorcycle helmet, and White is pointing to a bike mostly cut off by the picture’s edge.

“That’s the same jacket,” Connie says. Steven nods, swiping his thumb.

“This is the newest one, from yesterday.” 

Even with a lumpy, misshapen helmet covering her face and hair, the rest of White Diamond is too noticeable to miss. She’s cramped into the sidecar of a motorcycle, sitting as prettily as she can under the circumstances. It’s the same bike from the previous picture.

“And the same rider,” Connie says, finishing Steven’s thought.

“If Ronaldo is telling the truth, then those pictures were taken over three-hundred miles apart! I don’t know how long three-hundred miles _is_ , but it sounds like a lot, and that’s still five days!”

Connie leans back on her hand, nodding. “So she’s…”

“Yeah!” Steven throws his arms up in the air. “What kind of person goes on a road trip with White Diamond?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a later chapter, but it fits better here than in it's original placement. There would have been too much Steven perspective stuff too close together and introduced too far into the story. This also ended up being a lot quicker to write than I was expecting, I'll probably be doing more of these shorter "vignette" style chapters every couple of long ones. Next chapter will be the continuation of White and Reader's adventures in butte-land.
> 
> Ultimately I'm pretty 'meh' on Connverse as a ship, but I'd be lying if I said Steven wasn't absolutely smitten with Connie, so I hope the cute parts were tooth-rotting enough.


	7. A Light in the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Official Chapter Theme  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=33ptulhhQPg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand we've got a new longest chapter. Whoops.  
> Hit one thousand views, too, which is pretty badass and sexy of you all, considering it's about 100x more than I thought this fic would ever get.

**THE NEXT DAY**

  
  
  


You fan yourself with a brochure, waiting for her response.

“It’s an antiquated machine, but quite capable, even with its limitations.”

Antiquated?

“Hey now,” you say, “that ‘antiquated machine’ is only...” you do the math in your head.

Uh.

You look back at the bike and notice how much rust has started spreading around the wheels. A faint gust of wind, the only wind you’ve felt all morning, wafts its way through the air with all the power of an infant's sneeze. The bike’s mirror is pushed loose. 

Well.

“Alright. Call it whatever you want, but it  _ works. _ ”

“I never implied otherwise.”

“I--” 

You squint your eyes. 

“I guess you didn’t.”

“Precisely why I stated so.” White smiles.

Smartass.

You roll onto your feet and out of the shade.

“Cave should be opening soon, let’s get this done. I’m not sure how much more sun I can stand.”

“I find it rather enriching,” she says, following you towards the hill.

Squinting in the light, even with sunglasses, you carry your jacket on your shoulder and pop the brochure open. “We’re not all photosynthetic,” you mumble, reading it.

_ Witness the Crystal Caves! _

_ Venture into the depths of the earth in this exciting, fun-for-all-ages adventure! _

You skim over two pages of advertising and badly photoshopped pictures, looking for the opening time.

_ But watch out! Old Land-Pirate Roberts is lurking within! How will you-- _

Another page...

_ Can you band together with the brave Crystal Warrior Women-- _

And another...

_ Will Jenny and Mark ever rekindle their childhood ro-- _

This really shouldn’t be that hard to find.

_ Note: CCE LT is not responsible for any injuries (emotional, physical, or metaphysical) sustained in the Crystal Caves Interactive Tour™. If you or a loved one is diagnosed with-- _

And... there. On the bottom corner of the last page.

_ Only open on Tuesdays and Fridays from 9 a.m. to noon. _

You try to measure the time by the sun’s placement in the sky, but only succeed in hurting your eyes. Checking your phone helps little; even on the brightest setting, you can’t make it out in the daylight.

You turn back to White. “Hey, you know what time it is?”

She looks at the sun, then you. “Day.”

It’s probably time to get a watch. 

The ground gets rockier the higher up the hill you go; the path climbs it in a sharp zig-zag that cuts into the surface. The exposed sides are lined with large, waist-high boulders, and pairs of battered, sun-bleached wooden planks are buried in the ground every few feet. Each step you take kicks up a small cloud of dust and red dirt.

The unceasing vigilance of the sun makes this a more unenjoyable experience than it might have been otherwise. Had you left your jacket on, you would be dead from the heat. You try to think of a funny metaphor to spin into that, but there’s really no two ways about it. You unclip a canteen from your belt and take a swig of water, wishing you had the foresight to bring chapstick. White stops when you do, and you hold it out towards her.

“Take some, there’s no backwash.” 

Probably.

“I don’t need to drink water.”

You shake your head and wipe your chin. “Look, I know you’ve got this complex about eating and everything, so I won’t watch, but,” you shake your head again. “You ride with me? You wear a helmet. You go on hundred-degree desert hikes with me? You drink water.” She pulls her head back as you hold it closer to her face and shake it. “Drink the fuckin’ water.”

She pulls a look and arches her eyebrow.

You tilt your head and wiggle your own.

The side of her lip raises as she looks between you and the canteen.

The sun continues to cook the two of you alive.

She isn’t taking it.

You close your eyes and nod, jaw clenched. You raise a finger. “Drink the fucking water,” your hand opens and turns up, “ _ please _ .”

She huffs and takes the canteen between her middle finger and thumb, turning it in the sunlight. It’s not very large in her grip, and there’s likely too little left to even wet her tongue. Still, it’s better than nothing. You can’t see the cave from here, but it looks like there are only a few more bends before the path ends. With any luck, there’ll be a water fountain at the top. 

You trudge forward, back bending under the heat. White will follow in her own time.

A sort of rhythm develops as you walk. It takes you three steps to go from each set of planks to the next, with the first two being on dirt and rock. White, however, clears the gap in a single stride, the  _ clack  _ of her heels on wood coinciding with the first  _ crunch  _ of your boots on the dirt. 

It’s almost like the beat to a song.

Neat.

You round what looks to be the final corner: the path cuts off at an incline you can’t see over. White stops at your side and hands you the now empty canteen, and you hook it to your belt. 

As you approach the crest, more is shown of what lies ahead; it’s a gradual reveal, like an image loading on a slow network. The hill reaches up another dozen-or-so feet in the form of a sandstone cliff. There’s a building beneath it. The roof is done in wooden shingles, all of them faded and many falling apart. There’s an overhang, supported by thin, shaved tree trunks. The walls are made from lateral, nailed-on planks of the same shape as the ones used in the path. Two dusted windows flank a flimsy looking door with rusted hinges. To the side, in between the building and the cliff face, is a pile of fallen shingles, almost buried in dirt and cobwebs. Over a dark opening in the rocks is a sun-bleach yellow sign proclaiming it to be the entrance to the ‘CRYSTAL CAVES!!!’ 

The small plateau you’re on gives you a view that extends for miles. The road you rode in on travels from horizon-to-horizon, straight and unyielding, a striking black scar in the redness of the earth. Parked behind a boulder, so as to be hidden from any passerbys, is the motorcycle; little more than a reflective speck that blinds any attempts to look upon it. 

Similarly reflective is the large rock on White Diamond’s forehead. As she walks by, it reflects the sun directly into your eyes, and, even with sunglasses on, it’s enough to make you double over. By the time you’ve straightened yourself out and your vision has cleared, she’s parked herself about ten feet directly in front of your view, completely fucking up the composition.

Actually...

She has a pretty striking silhouette, and her monochromatic aesthetic gives a nice contrast to the vibrancy of the landscape. You frame the shot in your mind.

It’s a decent album cover, at worst.

You lazily pull out your phone and nab a picture, performing the process through muscle memory alone; you’ll have to wait until you’re indoors to see if you’ve got an image worth keeping.

The phone slides to the bottom of your pocket. 

Her cape is transparent from behind, the complete opposite of the bedazzled black seen from head-on. You’ve read about something that can do that, some kind of special fabric. It was supposed to be expensive though. Figures that the first person with enough money would just go and make a fashion accessory out of it. You trace the edge of the cape to its bottom, just above her ankles. If the  _ rest  _ of her outfit is gaudy, then there aren’t any words that can describe open-toed heels made with actual stone pillars. 

The whole look is... Interesting. Her hair, especially. You’d call it ‘auteur’, if you knew what that word meant. It sounds right.

Taking the time to look, you notice how bare her lower half is. From heel to hip, there’s nothing covering her legs. They’re completely exposed. That’d get embarrassing, right?

Maybe she’s proud of them.

You can see why. 

Yeah. 

You’re seeing them alright.

White lowers herself and sits cross-legged. You blink, and write off how much warmer you feel as a consequence of the sun getting higher in the sky.

You should probably get the tickets.

The sagging porch creaks as you step on it, and the door might as well be screaming as it opens. The interior of the shack is little more than two card stands, a shelf of assorted crystals, and a wooden counter with a single employee sitting behind it. He’s leaning back in a chair, reading a worn-out comic book, resting his feet on the edge of the counter. He’s young, early twenties, sporting ear-length, well-kept hair and a patchy goatee. 

“How many tickets you need?” he says, not even looking up.

“Just two.” You repay the hospitality by browsing the crystal rack as you speak.

“You want the full package?”

“Brochure didn’t mention multiple.”

“That right? Damn thing’s only twenty years out of date.”

You chuckle, then toss a fist-sized quartz into the air and catch it with your other hand before putting it back on the shelf. “We’ll take the full.”

“It’s twenty each.”

You shrug and hand him the money.

He slides it into a drawer and kicks off the counter, throwing the comic onto it as he stands. The two of you walk out; he stops by the entrance to the cave, and you go to White. She’s still meditating, so you stand beside her and clear your throat.

She’s like a statue. You can almost see the light break into a rainbow inside her gem, but you’re not here for a demonstration on how prisms work. You clear your throat again, louder this time.

Nothing.

You crouch down and tap her shoulder.

Her eyes shoot open, and her head whips towards you. 

You hear the counter guy step back, sucking in a breath, but you rest your elbow on your knee and your chin in your palm, then wave. “Yeah. Hi. Hello. We doin’ this or what?”

She holds a hand up to her chest and quietly laughs. “Oh, of course. You’ll have to forgive me, I was occupied, you see.”

“I did.”

She rises from the earth, and you stand. 

Counter Guy is waiting at the mouth of the cave, holding two metal helmets. They’re coated with rust and shaped like an old miner’s cap. He starts droning about legal jargon and safety precautions, looking over your shoulder as he talks, the one opposite White. She stares at him with the same blank smile she seems to give everyone she meets.

His spiel now over, he steps forward and offers you the helmets. They’re more like rounded metal plates than the traditional shape, but they still have a strap for the chin and a lamp on the front.

“They’re supposed to be one-size-fits-all,” Counter Guy explains, “but...” He looks at you, but waves towards White, who doesn’t seem to notice. She traces a finger along the rim, producing a soft scraping sound.

“...Yeah.” You scratch the back of your neck. “Here,” you tap White’s arm with the back of your hand. She looks down at you. “Squat.” You hold your helmet towards Counter Guy, and he takes it. “Give me your helmet,” you say to White. “Alright. Now. Hands on your forehead. Okay, pull them back, bring the hair with it. Hold it there. Right.” You wrestle the straps out to their maximum length, then take the helmet and set it on top of her head. 

“There are easier ways of doing this,” she says.

“Yeah,” you agree, “we could just shave all this off.” You look over your shoulder towards Counter Guy. “Got any clippers in there?”

“There’s an old hedge trimmer in my car.”

Your quippy response dies in your throat when you realize how close you’ve gotten to White’s face. She’s staring at you, only inches away, her eyes boring into your own. Her hands are resting on her thighs, no longer holding her hair back. It pushes against the helmet, but the strap is already fastened and keeping it in place. Now you’re just... Standing there, holding her face. 

You pat her cheek and clear your throat, stepping back. You take your helmet back from Counter Guy, and put it on with a bit too much force; the ringing in your brain is almost enough to distract you. 

Counter Guy has been explaining more, so you fasten the strap and pay attention.

“Finally, this is a guided tour. Since you’re both adults, I won’t be going with you into the cave, but I’ll be guiding you as you go. There’s a series of speakers and cameras that will let me track your progress and communicate with you. It’s only one passage, so you can’t get lost. Just think of me as a... Dead tour guide, haunting you.”

That’s an odd way to put it, but anyone who works out here is bound an odd fellow.

You nod and wave for White to follow as you head towards the mouth of the cave.

“I assumed it would be darker,” White says, peering over your shoulder; the entrance is low, so much that she has to bend over to look in. 

The cave is taller on the inside: it’s made from the same dry red stone as the cliff outside, and a thick layer of dirt and a series of planks lines the floor. Across the ceiling is a string of old brass lights you’d expect to see in a mineshaft, all connected by thick red wiring. It’s dimmer than outside, but still too bright to warrant the usage of the lights on your helmets.

You take the first step in, your footfall echoing down the narrow tunnel. A quick glimpse behind tells you White has enough room to stand, and, should you decide to, let the two of you walk side-by-side. 

You stay in front.

About two-dozen feet in, the cave turns to the right and opens into a larger chamber. A series of boulders are piled against the walls, sloping down towards the middle of the floor, giving the room the shape of a crumpled cylinder. A blue wire runs off from the center light across the ceiling and partway down the right-hand wall. It splits in two and connects to an old speaker and security camera. The speaker thrums with static, and the camera slowly swivels on its hinge, scanning the room until it lands on the two of you, where it stops. 

After greeting it with a click of your tongue and a short wave, you nudge White’s side and point. “Smile, we’re on camera.”

You don’t see what she does, but after several seconds of silence, the camera pivots away and focuses over your shoulder.

The static from the speaker increases in intensity, then cuts out with a short buzz. “ _ Uh, hello? Hello? Wave if you can hear me. _ ” Counter Guy’s voice is barely recognizable through the garbling of the electronics. “ _ Alright, great. Well, as you know, you have now entered the Crystal Caves!”  _ He says the name with mock enthusiasm. “ _ Get ready for a thrilling adventure filled with... Thrills... And...”  _ His voice cuts out. White looks at you, confused. You shrug. The speaker buzzes again. “ _ Hold on, there we go. Okay, I got the script.”  _

The two of you wait for him to continue. 

“ _ Uh. Looks like most of it got ruined by the last guy. Coffee stains, looks like. I think I’ve got the gist of it, though. Wait. That might be blood.” _

White looks back at you, now concerned.

You shrug, less confidently.

“ _ Anyway, _ ” he crackles, “ _ the year is 1699. Across the deserts of what would become the state you now find yourself in, a scourge... Scourges the land. With an army of monsters under his command, the dreaded Land-Pirate Rogers seeks to control the world.”  _ You hear a page turn. 

White bends over and picks up a fancy looking rock half the size of your head; you step away, in the event she drops it anywhere near that. 

“ _ Only the mighty Crystal Warrior Women,”  _ White seems to perk up at the name, “ _ can hope to stop him. After tracking him across the desert, they corner him here, at his lair, the Crystal Caves, said to be the source of his power and monstrous army.” _

He turns another page.

“ _ Please advance to the next room, and do not take any of the rocks. _ ”

A deep thud shakes the floor. White appears next to you, her hands folded and face passive; you turn around and see the rock she was holding embedded in the dirt.

“Shall we proceed?” she asks.

“It’s what we’re here for.” The two of you walk to the end of the passage, where another tunnel is open. It slopes down and curves to the left, hiding the next room from sight. You rest a hand on the edge of the opening, but stop mid-step. You turn towards the speaker. “Hey,” you say at nothing, “is this mic set-up two-way?”

For several seconds, your only response is static. Then, a buzz. “ _ Officially, no _ .”

You rub your chin. “Can you turn the lights off?”

“ _ Uh...” _

“Why would you want to do that?” White asks.

“You said you wanted it darker, right? It adds to the ambience. Y’know, the full experience.”

She hums in thought, then nods. “That would be wise. I presume the illuminatory systems on our helms are functional, then?”

“Fuckin’... Probably.” You turn back to the speaker. “Do the lights on the helmets work?”

Static, then a buzz. “ _ You’re the ones who’re wearing them.” _

Right. You fumble around for a switch on your helmet, until something clicks and a beam of light shines on White’s face; a kaleidoscope of colors scatters across the ceiling and walls as it breaks apart in her gem. She doesn’t even blink. “Sorry about that,” you say, turning away.

“Would you be so kind as to activate my own?” She crouches down like outside and smiles. “I’m not well acquainted with this technology.”

“Alright,” you mutter. “Just gimme a second to...” 

Make a fool out of yourself, it feels like. Where’s the switch? You run your fingers over the lamp, searching for anything and finding nothing. White keeps staring, directly into your eyes. You try to return her smile. 

It doesn’t work. 

Hers falters; out of confusion or concern, you can’t say.

Something clicks beneath your finger; a beam of light blinds you, and you reel back in shock. Looks like you found it. 

“Helmets are working,” you grumble at the speaker. “Can you get those lights off?”

Another buzz. “ _ Officially, no _ .” With a series of clicks, the bulbs illuminating the cave system shut-off, one after the other. 

You’re surrounded by darkness, pierced only by the light from your helmets, revealing what’s ahead in a yellow haze. The rocks around you cast long, reaching shadows upon the walls that look down on you like a crowd of phantoms.

“See?” You look at White. “Atmosphere.”

“It does have a charm to it.”

The two of you carefully make your way through the tunnel and into the next room.

It’s circular around, and has a domed ceiling speckled with stalactites. To your right is a large cardboard cut-out depicting four very colorful looking women. The quality leaves something to be desired, but the basics are still communicated.

“ _ Here, we meet our heroes: The Crystal Warrior Women. We don’t know if that was their real name, but it gets the gist of things.”  _ He stops. “ _ Can you point your lights at the cut-out? I can’t remember what order they’re in. Great. Okay, from the left, we’ve got... Whipster, she’s the short, purple one.”  _ She holds a whip out to her side, her other arm up defending her chest. “ _ Next to her is Destructar, the one with the square hair.”  _ She’s crouched, guarded, with her fists encased in large, red gauntlets. “ _ Over on the far-right is Duella, note the swords.”  _ The third figure holds two rapiers crossed over her head, the handles obscuring the top half of her face. “ _ And in the middle, we’ve got the tall one with pink hair. Hold on, I think the name’s on the next page...” _

He rummages through the papers, and White steps forward. She’s eye-level with the pink one, who stands tall with her shoulders squared. The painting on the cut-out is little more than a stylized silhouette: her dress, skin, and hair are all blocked out in different colors, but the only detail painted-- or, remaining --is her mouth, set in a grim determination.

White takes her helmet off, dropping it on the ground, and traces a finger down the painting’s cheek. “Rose.”

“What?”

“She called--” White stops, and, with her thumb, brushes off a layer of dust where the painting’s eyes would have been. “Her name was Rose.”

The speaker crackles. “ _ Uh, yeah. That’s what it says. Just ‘Rose.’” _

“What, did you know these jokers?” 

She doesn’t say anything.

“Are you a... history buff?”

No response.

Why does she look like that?

Is she sad?

What are you supposed to do around sad people?

Oh god, what if she starts crying?

What the fuck are you supposed to do around crying people?

You reach out, slowly. “Hey--” Before you can touch her arm, she snaps her head in your direction; a light blinds you, and you stumble back in alarm. Your heel catches on a rock, and you lose your footing. 

You exclaim in a shout, cut short.

Before you can fall, a hand catches your own. You’re held there, suspended in the air like a dancer in a dip. 

In the commotion, the light on your helmet has gone dark, yet the room is not. Standing before you, and glowing like the moon, is White Diamond. Her gentle luminescence illuminates the cavern around you; the high ceiling is damp, and small flecks of water upon it catch and reflect what little light they can, seeming, in the surrounding darkness, to be stars, suspended in the infinite cosmos.

White slowly pulls you forward, upright; sadness, and now concern, etched into her face. “Oh dear. I hope I didn’t startle you. Are you alright?”

Your throat is dry.

Was the cave always this warm?

Is this a bad time to ask how she does the glowing thing?

“I’m fine,” you croak.

White’s face shifts into a smile, her radiance dimming. “Wonderful.” She lets go of your hand and turns away, not even realizing what she’s done.

To be fair, you aren’t entirely sure of what’s happened either.

The speaker buzzes. “ _ It’s time for the next room, if you two are done. _ ”

You dust yourself off, even though you’re completely clean. “Sounds great.” After a bit of fumbling, you manage to switch your helmet’s lamp back on. You find White’s on the floor-- it must have fallen off when she grabbed you --and are about to pick it up when a pair of hands rests themselves on your shoulder.

“I would ask that you leave that dreadful thing here. I shan’t expect to find myself lost within this cavern so long as you are here to guide me, my navigator.” 

‘My navigator’?

She isn’t smiling, and her eyes still hold a hint of melancholy. You nudge the helmet against a large rock on the floor, keeping it out of the way. 

You nod. “Alright.”

She folds her hands in front of her stomach, and for the briefest moment, her lips curl up. “Shall we?” she asks. 

You continue on, White following close behind.

The next tunnel is steep; so much so that flimsy wooden stairs have been built into the floor. They creak as you walk on them, but White seems to have found a more stable place to step, as she descends almost silently. 

A shadow on the wall catches your eye. As you move down, you trace what looks like scratch marks in the stone. They’re faded and worn smooth, but the consistency of their spacing and depth means that they can only be from the claws of a living creature. There are more on the opposite wall, and even a few on the ceiling.

Your fingers match the distance between the marks, and it seems like they would have been made by a human with slightly larger hands than your own. But, y’know, humans don’t have any fucking claws.

Must be a part of the bit.

The ‘crystal’ part of the Crystal Caves finally comes into play as you enter the third chamber. Larger than the last, but similar in shape, several more tunnels can be seen, yet all but one are blocked off by piled rocks and cut-outs of large crystal formations. Broken pieces of quartz line the floor, and a few more complete ones can be seen glued to the stalactites on the ceiling. 

Most of their budget seems to have gone to the cut-outs, as a new set of the Crystal Warrior Women is in this room. They’re posed mid-action as if in the midst of a battle.

The speaker crackles then buzzes. “ _ Now cornered, Land-Pirate Rockwell has no choice but to unleash his army and face the Crystal Warriors in a battle to the death. But whose death will it be? I mean, I know, but you guys don’t. Watch this. _ ”

A whining sound can be heard from behind a large boulder near the center of the room. A new cut-out springs up from behind it, positioned to appear as if it’s sitting atop the rock, snarling at the viewer. 

It looks like a monkey. An angry red monkey with a flaming fist and a brick for a head.

“How frightening,” White says with passive interest.

You stifle a cough in a sort of agreement, hoping no one noticed you jumping at the thing’s sudden appearance.

You steal a glimpse at White: she’s looking back at the Crystal Warriors, but you can’t see her face. She turns her attention to the speaker when it comes to life.

“ _ With all manner of monsters under his control-- and out of our budget --Land-Pirate Roarke makes his stand. Yet, the tide of battle shifts out of his control, and with the wind no longer backing his sails, he makes a swift retreat, commanding his forces to stay behind and allow his escape. With the other Crystal Warriors locked in battle, Duella races off in pursuit, determined to destroy him for her Lady Rose. They were said to be good friends. _ ”

White huffs.

The speaker doesn’t continue with.

“Is that all for this room?” you ask.

“ _ What, you didn’t like it? _ ” Counter Guy asks, faking hurt in his voice.

“I am just eager to see what happens next.”

“ _ Good save.” _

One of the tunnel entrances begins to emit a sharp keening sound. The crystal cut-out rotates inward, revealing an open passage.

“ _ Travel on,  _ brave _ adventurers. Your final challenge awaits. _ ”

The last room mirrors the first, only lacking the surplus boulders along the walls. In the center are two cut-outs: another Duella, now lunging forward with both swords extended, and one angry looking pirate, poised for a riposte. The cut-outs sway side-to-side on metal hinges, the edges of their swords colliding before bouncing back and repeating the action. 

“ _ The two fighters now locked in mortal combat, both must give their all to prevent themselves from falling victim to the other’s speed and skill. Duella was low-born, rising to prominence only through her will and determination to better her craft. From nothing, she would rise to become one of the greatest sword fighters of her time. Land-Pirate Rodrigo’s sword granted him control over his army, yet offered no boons in the field of battle: like Duella, the skill he fought with was all his own. _ ”

The scenery really doesn’t do the narration any favors. The cut-outs hitch and stop, caught on their own machinery, then, it sounds like something snaps, and they resume their ‘mortal combat’.

“ _ Unfortunately for our antagonist, to enter a duel with Duella is to dance with Death itself. After a desperate, bloody battle, she struck him down, ending the pirate lord’s thirty-year reign of terror.” _

The cut-outs stop again.

“ _ Deposit five dollars to see Duella strike down Land-Pirate Robby.” _

“I don’t have any more cash on me.”

“ _ Oh. Just... Try shaking the drop box.” _

You scan the room, looking for it. White pokes your shoulder and points towards it, quietly saying that it’s right beside you. It’s an old, copper box on a stand, connected by wiring on the floor to the cut-outs ahead. Red in the face, you step forward and grip it with both hands, then rock it back and forth. Nothing happens.

The speaker buzzes. “ _ Maybe a little harder. _ ”

Alrighty then.

You widen your stance and thrash it like it owes you money, ignoring the fact that it’s technically the other way around. The clanging echoes through the chamber, and something mechanical  _ clicks _ . You stop, and turn to the cut-outs.

Duella jerks forward. The pirate freezes in place, then flops onto the ground, throwing up a cloud of dust around it. 

The speaker buzzes. “ _ That’ll do it. _ ”

You step back to White.

“You’re very strong,” she says.

You mutter a quiet thanks.

Counter Guy clears his throat. “ _ Duella’s compatriots rush into the chamber, only to find the villain already vanquished. With the monster army defeated, and their leader dead, the scourge of Land-Pirate Roger is at last brought to an end. Duella reaches to the ground and takes the fallen pirate’s sword to prevent its power from falling into the wrong hands, and, some say, as a sign of respect for a worthy foe. _ ”

Nice story. 

One problem.

“Is this cave a dead end?” you ask.

“ _ Yep. And if you leave that helmet on the ground back there, I can legally charge you ten dollars. _ ”

Bastard.

You make sure to grab it on your way out, forcing White to hold it, much to her annoyance. Without the thrilling exposition, the return trip out only takes a few minutes, but any amount of backtracking is too much for your tastes. Seeing the unpainted backsides of all the cut-outs doesn’t exactly do wonders for the cave’s atmosphere.

When you reach the first room, the lights all switch on, and the speaker thrums with activity. White stops you from leaving with a light squeeze on the shoulder, clearly interested in what’s left to say.

“ _ Before you go, _ ” Counter Guy says, “ _ there’s one thing you should know. According to legend, not all of Land-Pirate Roberto’s army was destroyed. His devilish monkey-fiend, the dastardly fellow you met earlier, is said to have escaped the carnage and fled north. In all the years since, the creature has never been seen again. Or, no one has ever survived seeing it to tell the tale.” _

Spooky. You smirk at White, but it almost looks like she’s bought into it. Sometimes you forget how gullible rich people are.

“ _ Finally, remember to visit the gift shop before you leave. Also, by entering Crystal Caves™ you have signed an unwritten waiver to not request any refunds or share any negative experiences you may or may not have had while on company property.” _

The speaker shuts off, and you begin to leave. Then, it turns back on, and you’re stopped again by White.

“ _ They’ll fire me if I don’t say that. Don’t say that I said this.”  _ It shuts off again.

You point at the cave exit and look at White. “We gettin’ outta here?”

“I suppose now would be the time.”

The hike back to the bike is modest in comparison to the way up. The sky is cloudier, dropping the temperature and shielding the two of you from direct sunlight. You almost slip on a small patch of mud on the way down, but you catch yourself before White has to. 

“How the hell did that get there?” you ask.

“Could it be a result of localized rainfall?” White proposes.

You look at her, incredulously, and approximate the small size of the patch with your hands, holding it up to her.

“Highly localized.” She smiles.

You shake your head, the two of you finish the walk down.

You haphazardly dust off the seat before mounting the motorcycle, White soon joining you in the sidecar. She touches a finger against your arm to get your attention. “I don’t regret my experiences here, though, I am curious, regardless: wherever did you learn of such a strange place?” She waves a hand up at the hill as she asks.

“Well, I mean, it was supposed to be pretty good. I don’t know if I’d  _ call  _ it pretty good, but... It was supposed to be.”

“Yes, but how did you come to learn of it?”

“I... was talking with a drunk guy in a Lenny’s bathroom.”

She looks about as confused as you’d expect. Explaining more would probably just make things worse.

“He sounded pretty enthusiastic about it.”

“I see,” she says, not seeing it.

The two of you put your helmets on, and you twist the ignition, starting the bike. It snarls as you kick off; the rear tire bites into the earth and kicks up a cloud of red dirt behind you. 

A sense of comfort fills you as the bike purrs at the ground turning into paved road. White begins her meditation, and you let your eyes rest on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to have an Emotional Moment at the end that I couldn't find a way to fit in, but if my plans for the chapter after the next follow through, then it should end up there. It was originally supposed to be two chapters ago, but I've got a bad habit of rushing things; I'm desperately trying to develop this relationship in a real way, we'll see how I manage.
> 
> Now seems a good a time as any to ask: how would you guys feel about sexual content? I'm thinking it can either be included in this fic directly, or be left out as a side-piece that has chapter names telling you when it takes place in the main story. Regardless, there would be alt-versions depending on what sex you prefer the reader to have. Obviously I'd be trying to keep it in character for White, but I'm just looking for a general idea of which idea would work better or even if it's something any of you want to see.
> 
> Edit: Fixed the formatting, there was too much space between paragraphs before. Also, after thinking about it for a bit, I don't there's going to be any sexual content beyond a few PG-13 jokes; full graphic material doesn't really fit the tone I'm going for. A side-fic is still up in the air, but with how I'm trying to write White, her coming around to the idea would be something that takes more time than the planned scope of this work.


	8. Rest, Rust, and Repairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your dearest companion gets a makeover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like replying to every comment with the same answer, but I just want to say, if you've left any sort of feedback or kind words here, I have seen it, and read it over multiple times. There's nothing else in the world like people appreciating your work, and I'm very reassured to find that I'm not the only one who likes White enough to write (or read) a fic about her.

Your hands are caked in mud, soot, rust, and oil; it’s a comfortable feeling for you, but one that seems unappealing to White. She’s been watching you work for the past hour or so, a sort of grimace on her face the entire time. 

You’re sitting on a plastic scooter board in the parking lot of an automotive parts shop, making some replacements and repairs on your bike. The ground around you is littered with loose bolts, parts both new and old, and more than a dozen different wrenches and tools. The sidecar is disconnected from the motorcycle; a process made easy thanks to a nifty little rig you set up that lets you detach it with the pull of a single latch. It sits beside you, the trunk held open, but anything of use within is now scattered across the pavement for easy access. You called it efficient, White said it was a managerial catastrophe. 

“Why not have the workers perform this task? Is it not why they are here?” This isn’t the first time she’s asked something like this.

“I’m already paying them for parts--” you grunt as you tug the wrench and the bolt comes loose “--don’t need to pay them for this, too.”

“Is that really a concern? You’ve hardly been acting as if you’re wanting for wealth.”

You don’t reply immediately, focusing instead on aligning the shock bar with the insert hole. “That’s ‘cause I do this myself.” The torque wrench clicks as you tighten the new bolt to specifications. You turn towards White and tap the newly installed suspension system. “Lets me spend more money on the fancy bits.” You sit back and rest on your palms, smirking at her. “Besides,” you gesture at the scrap and stains around you, “this is the fun part.” 

She doesn’t seem to agree. 

You continue, “And, the grime makes me look  _ rugged _ .” A bead of sweat runs down your forehead; you wipe it away with a dirty rag, purposefully smearing your skin with a dark streak of oil.

She pulls up her lip and raises an eyebrow. “I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it. Tell me when you’re finished.” White begins to walk away, then turns back and adds, “But, only after you’ve cleaned up.” You grin in mock innocence; she doesn’t even try to match the smile.

She leaves with a purpose in her stride; you’re not sure if it’s because she wants to get away from you or if she’s looking to make some new friends out of the local cacti. Her heels make a satisfying  _ click _ as she walks, and you watch her longer than you need to.

The rest of the job consists of double-checking your work and putting away your mess. It’s mindless, and gives you time to think.

With your little romp around the Southwest looping around on itself more than once, you’ve ended up closer to the coast than you were when you first found White. From where you are, it would only take about two hours of highway hopping to get there. 

Two hours in, five or so there, another two back…

At most, you’re looking at a single day’s delay.

You bounce the idea around in your head.

It’s not like you’ve got a schedule to follow.

Besides, there’s still, what, how many weeks left in the summer? You’ve only been with White for… 

…

Well, you’ve lost track of the exact time, but it can’t have been that long. Probably, like, a week and a half. 

Two, at most. 

Maybe.

You shut the now filled tool case and slide it back into the sidecar, then close the trunk. You wheel it over to the bike’s side and fasten everything in place, making sure the latch is secure. That mod might not be  _ entirely  _ legal, but it’s pretty damn convenient, so it evens out. Thanks to the new suspension (and tires, and oil, and headlight, and bolts, and you’ve spent a  _ lot  _ of money today), the motorcycle sits a few inches higher off the ground; that might prove to be an annoyance, but now off-roading is now a legitimate possibility, and the whole thing isn’t falling apart. You wipe some dust off the mirror with your thumb, snag your jacket from the seat, sling it over your shoulder, then wink at your filthy looking reflection. Anyone with taste, you figure, would describe your appearance as “roguishly attractive.” 

Maybe that’s why White doesn’t like eating food?

Speaking of your enigmatic companion, she’s getting a little too close to that cactus for your comfort. 

You carry the scooter under your arm as you cross the parking lot, formulating a plan for the rest of the day. You drop it by the curb, lean onto your knee, and wait for her to finish with her plant-socializing before you speak. The sun lies behind her head, illuminating her hair with a halo of light; you squint, then slide on a pair of sunglasses. White draws a finger away from the cactus’ pink flower and slowly looks down at you, unimpressed by your dishevelment. She sighs. “Yes?” 

“Y’ever been to the beach?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not happy with how long it took to get this one out, considering how short it is, but I was swamped with University work and didn't have much time to myself. Next chapter is probably going to be the one that takes the most time to get out, I may or may not be going on a three-day camping trip tomorrow, and chapter 9 is going to be another long one, so the time it'll take to write it will also have to be factored in.  
> We'll call this the first official hiatus.  
> Ideally, one of few.  
> I might start adding a map to the end of certain chapters to give a more concrete idea of Reader and White's road trip path, but that's still a solid "maybe." If the timeline or geography ever gets confusing, let me know, and I'll try to keep it more clear.  
> I'm going to re-post this from the last chapter in case anyone saw the end notes without the update, but:  
> After thinking about it for a bit, I don't there's going to be any sexual content beyond a few PG-13 jokes; full graphic material doesn't really fit the tone I'm going for. A side-fic is still up in the air, but with how I'm trying to write White, her coming around to the idea would be something that takes more time than the planned scope of this work.  
> Dream sequences tho.... 👀 👀 👀


	9. Obligatory Beach Episode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're going to the fucking BEACH, babes

The bar is predominantly lit by strings of Christmas lights strung through rope netting nailed to large, wooden beams that run across the ceiling. At the back, is an open wall that faces the ocean; the front door and windows are never closed. These, combined, provide a constant, cool breeze. At the open wall, a set of stairs runs down three steps to a slate patio lined with an iron fence that overlooks the beach below it. You and White are sitting across one another at a table there, beneath a cloth overhang providing some relief from the sun.

“I understand the benefits of living here, but I simply cannot grasp why anyone would want to go  _ into  _ the water.” White traces a finger along the edge of her glass, producing a soft, ringing sound. It’s a neat trick, notable only because she’s doing it with a cocktail glass instead of a wine cup; you had tried to replicate it earlier when she wasn’t looking, but the slight embarrassment of your unseen failure prevented you from now asking how it was performed.

“It’s just water.” You take a swig of your martini. “Not like you’ve got to think about drowning, you’d have to wade half a mile out for it to reach your knees. Y’got nothing to worry about.”

“It’s not the water itself,” she says, looking down at her glass, “more… what it contains.”

“What, sharks? I checked before we came here, there aren’t any at this beach.”

White purses her lips. “I’ve no qualms with oceanic lifeforms. But when one considers the activities they participate in, and where the remnants of those activities are found, they must consider whether entering the water with them is a decision that can be made in a sound state of mind.”

What kind of ‘activities’ is she talking about? Fish don’t do anything that land animals don’t do too, and she’s fine being around them. They kill each other, they eat each other, then they…

That means it would end up…

...Yeah. That’s kinda gross.

“The fish piss?” you ask. “You’re scared of the fish piss?”

She holds a finger against her forehead and screws her eyes shut. “I don’t know the meaning of that word. Even so, I can still feel the vulgarity behind it.”

“What word--?” you sip your drink “--fish, or piss?”

White groans and pushes her margarita away. You thought she’d like it, but she never even touched it. Anything but the glass, technically. Alcohol isn’t the best thing to push onto someone who doesn’t want it, so you never  _ said  _ she needed to drink it, but it seemed patronizing not to order her anything at all. Then again, the act itself of ordering the drink could have been seen as a form of coercion, an unwanted pressure.

Might have been a better idea to ask about it beforehand. Would have been an even better idea to not get it in the first place, since she never eats or drinks around other people. Should you ask about that? It’s not like you haven’t brought it up before.

…

You’ll save it for another time.

“You don’t have to go in the water,” you say. “Just find an open area and relax for a while.” The pressure around her eyes lessens at the suggestion. You cock your head. “Gonna need some sunscreen, though. Lots of it.”

“And that is…?”

“The amount?” 

Wait.

“Do you know what sunscreen is?”

“Should I?”

With how much skin she’s showing? You’d fucking hope so. “It’s… a cream. You rub it on your skin. Protects it from sunburns.”

“Sunburns?”

_ That’s  _ enough to make you do a double-take. “Hollywood, you…” She is  _ literally  _ the whitest person you have ever seen. A fucking moonbeam should be enough to give her a burn, and she doesn’t even know what they are? “You cannot look me in the eyes and tell me that you don’t know what a sunburn is.”

She looks you in the eyes. “I do not know what a sunburn is.”

“You’ve never even been...?”

“I can say with confidence that I have not.”

“But you don’t even know what it  _ is _ .”

“My physical form is not ailed by the same afflictions as your own.”

Maybe it  _ is  _ all make-up. But, you’ve never seen her apply any…

But she also never eats around anyone…

And she does spend a lot of time alone…

But where would she be storing it?

Maybe it’s permanent? Some kind of full-body tattoo covering? Unless she got it as a kid, there had to have been  _ some  _ point in her childhood where she spent too long in the sun…

A genetic condition? It might be rude to ask about that. Unless you pretend like you already know, then maybe she’ll feel more comfortable expanding on it? You decide to frame it like a compliment: that’ll help it go over easier.

“Right. You’re completely superhuman and better than the rest of us in every way possible, is that it?”

You could have phrased that better.

“Steven says it’s rude to refer to myself in such grandiose terms around lesser lifeforms, but, since it was you who said so, yes. I am.”

Fucking hell. 

“Lesser lifeforms?” you ask.

White doesn’t respond immediately, but the shift in her expression is instantaneous. She looks to the side, and you almost see her roll her eyes, but a glance in your direction causes her expression to change once more. Worry, almost. Maybe guilt. It’s not the first time you’ve seen that look. Your question was born out of curiosity; her ego is something you’re used to, but ‘lesser lifeforms’ wasn’t a term you’d expected to hear. It’s as simple as that. 

She looks back at the ocean and rests her chin in her palm. “ _ Equal  _ lifeforms,” she mutters into her hand.

...Okay.

You finish your martini, then idly swirl the empty glass and watch the olive at its bottom roll in place. “So… you gonna do anything with that?” You tip your glass towards her own.

She pushes it towards you, and you set your own glass at the edge of the table as you take hers in hand. It’s fancy looking. There’s a swirl in the base, a line of sugar coats the rim, and it even has one of those little umbrellas. Shame that she didn’t even try it.

You finish it before she looks back.

Her loss.

For a time, nothing of note occurs. White continues to watch the sea, and you’re content enough to join her, willing the current silence between the two of you into un-awkwardness. All you hear is the soft clatter of glass on wood, the churning rumble of distant ocean waves, and the increasingly heated argument of a couple seated some dozen feet behind you. It’s all rather idyllic.

“You like the sun, right?” you ask.

“I… suppose so. You’re asking with a reason in mind?”

“Yeah. See her?” You point to an old woman, lying on a towel near the beach’s edge. “That’s sunbathing. You kind of do that already, just sitting up.”

“My methods of meditation are far more complex than that.”

“Right. You can play stuff like volleyball, too. That’s what they’re doing.” You point to a small group of men playing the most violent looking game of the sport you’ve ever seen. “Uh. It’s usually a bit tamer than that.”

“I see.”

“There’re a lot of people out today, but I betcha it wouldn’t take too much walking to find a quieter spot.” The argument behind the two of you gets louder, and you hear a drink get spilt.

“That hardly seems a difficult metric to pass.”

You shrug. “Beach walks are supposed to be nice, y’know? All relaxing and shit.”

She taps a finger against the table, seemingly in thought.

You do the mean thing and say, “Think about it: nothing but you, the sand below, sky above, and a disgusting amount of fish juice just three feet to your left.” 

Her finger stops mid-air and her eyes harden. “You would do well to learn when to keep your ideas to yourself.”

“Probably, yeah. Just ignore what I said, you won’t even be touching the water.”

“Near proximity seems appalling enough.”

“You want me to stand between you and the ocean? Keep you safe from the nasty fish water?”

She scoffs, but doesn’t say no.

“If we’re done here,” you say, “we might as well get moving.” White follows as you stand and walk back into the bar. The angry couple leaves as you enter, and you can hear their shouting fade as they walk away. You pass their table, but stop. An empty glass sits close to the edge in front of an alcohol-drenched chair with a person-sized dry spot in center. A second glass, mostly full, sits opposite the other. It looks like some kind of whiskey.

It’d be a shame if it just got thrown out.

“Are you staying here?” White asks, hunched over in the door frame.

“Gimme one second.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“You’re kinda wearing one already. They’re just outfits people put on when they know they’re going in water. Or if there’s a chance of water getting on them.”

“Such as when it rains?”

“Not really, no.”

“I don’t see the difference.”

You take a moment to think as the two of you continue down the street. “You wear one if you go near a... body of water. That’s in case you go in, and it’s just, kinda what people wear there. Even if you don’t.”

“So, the ubiquitousness of its wearing in those environments caused the swimsuit to shift from a purely utilitarian garment to one with a cultural value and significance; enough to warrant its wearing even when not using it for its original purpose. Is that correct?” She sounds awfully academic.

“Pretty much.” 

You’re used to that, now. A minute ago she didn’t even know what a swimsuit  _ was _ , but ten seconds later she understands how its ‘cultural value’ makes people wear one at a beach just because everyone else does, too. For all the cluelessness White has when it comes to the specifics of just about everything, she seems to have a pretty good handle on… broader ideas. Ideas too complicated for someone who, up until three days ago, didn’t know what ice cream was. Then again, it’s not exactly her only eccentricity. You’ve learned to roll with it.

“And this should prove an adequate substitute?” She gestures to her leotard.

On its own? Sure.

With the shoulder pads, pillar heels, and cape?

You slow to a stop as your eye is caught on a small shop. It has a thatched roof and front wall plastered with sea shells; the name is hand-painted on an oversized surfboard that leans next to the door. It reads ‘SWIMSUIT UP!’

“I’ve gotta get one anyway, we might as well find something for you.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The guy at the counter looks like a sun-tanned marble statue in a tank-top. The tag on his shirt says that his name is Chad, and he sounds exactly like you would have expected him to. “I can check in the back,” he rings up your purchase as he talks, “but I can’t make any promises. I won’t lie, brah, she makes something tall look like something that isn’t tall.” 

You couldn’t have said it better yourself. 

He continues. “You’ll probably have to get a custom order.”

White stands at the opposite end of the store, idly browsing its selections. If she hears either of you, she doesn’t show it.

“Any chance you’ve got a sewing machine in the back?” you ask.

“Nadda, brewski.”

Damn.

“That’s five-sixty-seven,” he says.

You give him a handful of crumpled dollar bills. He starts to make change, but you shake your head then walk towards White. The swimsuit you’ve picked out is plain: just white with a few vertical red stripes. It’s cheap as shit (your main reason for picking it), and you can tell it’ll feel like shit too. A door closes behind you. Must be Chad, getting ready to waste ten minutes. Unless he’s smart, and he’s using ‘searching the back’ as an excuse for a break.

White focuses on a particular outfit on a mannequin held at what is eye level for her. It’s a two-piece, green bikini that has a shawl around the waist, another across the shoulders, and a sun hat with a ribbon around the crown whose bow is replaced with a flower. It’s difficult to imagine her wearing something so-- relatively --plain. 

“If they don’t have anything your size, then you don’t  _ have  _ to wear one.”

“That won’t be an issue,” she says, clearly occupied by something else.

“If you think so.” You hold up your new purchase and point to the bathroom across the street. “Gonna go get changed, I’ll meet you back here, yeah?”

She waves you off. “Yes, this shouldn’t take too long.”

The only things on the streets are pedestrians and vespa riders; crossing proves easy. The bathroom is well-kept and surprisingly clean, aside from illegible writing one of the mirrors. You’re willing to bet, at most, ten dollars that a high schooler did that. You slip the swimsuit and a pair of sandals on, then stuff your clothes and boots into your duffel bag. The leather jacket stays on during beach walks.

Your footwear makes an almost-obnoxious thwapping sound every step you take. Figuring White will give up after a few more minutes, you decide to take some time to yourself and watch the ocean. You lean against the side of the swimsuit shop and fold your arms. There’s another, slightly larger, building to your right, leaving you nestled in what would be called an alley, if it weren’t so short. Behind the buildings and in front of you is a small backlot littered with old newspaper and promotional flyers; you can see the edges of a few dumpsters, but, thankfully, you get nothing of the smell. Beyond the lot is a field of grass-covered sand dunes which level off into the beach. The sun has entered that after-after noon, pre-setting spot in the sky where everything looks a little more golden and the air gets just a bit warmer before the cool, darkness of evening seeps in. 

Most of the beach-goers and tourists have filtered out. Those few who remain are the ones who come for this time of day and the hours after. An old man walks an old dog down a path they’re bound to have walked before. A child sits in a woman’s lap as she reads to them from a book, tracing her spot so that the kid can follow along. A group of frat bros set up the beginnings of a bonfire; you can still hear their laughter, as far away as you are.

Why are you doing this?

Not watching those people…

Her.

Why?

This isn’t the first time you’ve had someone tag along with you. But, that was a while ago, and it was nothing near as long as what you’ve planned. Hell, it wasn’t even as long as what you’ve  _ already  _ done. If you hadn’t gone on that little southbound detour, you’d be halfway across the country by now. If you stopped stopping at every little tourist trap and restaurant that caught your eye, you’d already be finished. As it stands, you’re even further back than when you started. Keep this up and you won’t see ‘Beach City’ until leaves start falling off of trees. 

Is Beach City even a real name?

The internet turned up plenty of beach cities, but no Beach City, proper. White assured you that it was the correct, but can you really trust her with something like that? Can you trust her with… anything?

It’s not that you’re worried she’ll stab you in the back, it’s just…

You  _ think _ that you know what she’s  _ like _ , but you have no idea who she _ is _ .

Is this whole trip just you playing bodyguard for someone who isn’t even paying you? 

She could do with some bodyguards, considering the giant, fuck-off diamond she’s carrying around on her forehead. How does she even keep it there? 

Regardless, none of your theories for that can explain her bizarre body of knowledge. 

Or the lack of general life experiences.

Or whatever’s going on with her skin.

Or the on-command, full-body glowing. 

Or why you’re taking her with you.

You grip your arms tighter.

Might be a good time to tell that Chad guy to give up looking.

The laughter behind you seems to get louder as you walk away.

Through the window, it’s him you see first. The opening of the door is punctuated by the ringing of a small bell; Chad turns at the sound, his face having the familiar look of someone who’s been around White Diamond too long to feel comfortable, but not long enough to understand that she really can’t help herself. 

“You two… have, uh… have a nice day.” He’s power walking away before the sentence is over.

When you look at White, you don’t even get the chance to start talking.

She’s wearing a hat. The same as the one that the mannequin had, except black with a white ribbon and flower. Through what you can only assume is the power of a god, her hair is tamed, flattened beneath it and falling down to her shoulders, gently curling at the ends.

The hat’s bigger, obviously. Surprisingly. It actually fits.

The rest does, too. The bikini-- she’s wearing a fucking  _ bikini _ \--is the same color as the sun hat. The shawls are made from a glittering fabric, similar to her her cape, and though technically she’s now wearing more material than before, the shawl’s transparent nature means she’s showing a  _ lot  _ more skin.

That is her  _ entire  _ midriff.

Why are you staring?

“Is it the color?” she asks. “It’s an otherwise exact replica, I--”

“It’s not. No. It’s not. Fine. It’s fine.” 

“You’re hardly acting as if it is.” She holds her hands on her hips and cocks them to the side. She’s probably glaring at you, but you aren’t looking at her face.

You’d figured a one-piece would be more her style. Something old fashioned, like those frumpy ones with the poofy bits around the shoulders. But this? She looks like she just walked off the cover of a magazine.

To be fair, she did before, too. But that would have been an experimental throwback post-futurism retro style photo-op. Right now, she’s…

Well, she’s actually kinda...

Your throat is as dry as... something else that’s really dry. You don’t even bother trying to complete the mental metaphor; any blood that could have gone to your brain is firmly nestled in your still reddening cheeks. Blame it on the whiskey.

“It’s a nice look,” you blurt out.

You don’t wait for a response, and start heading for the beach.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The two of you walk in silence. You keep your promise and stay between White and the ocean. Every passing minute sees the sun set lower in the sky, which bleeds orange as it descends. The horizon opposite darkens and turns purple. The brightest of the night’s stars, still faded and obscured by blue, appear in the sky. 

“Do you ever watch the stars?” White asks.

It’s hard not to, when sometimes it’s all you have. Batteries die, service cuts out, and asphalt doesn’t make for good conversation. When a thousand miles of grass and highway starts to take its toll, pulling off to the side of the road and finding a forgotten spot where no one has set foot in a hundred years just to look at the night sky might be the only cure you have for whatever it is you’ve got. It’s not that you’re  _ lonely _ , it’s just…

“Sometimes.”

“May I ask why?”

“Why do you wanna know?” You spare a glance at her. She’s looking up. You look away.

“I watched the stars for an eternity, never seeing them for anything more than what I needed from them. They were numbers, simple data. Resources. Nothing more.”

From the corner of your eye, you see her ringing her hands.

“Now, I try to find something new. Some hidden beauty I did not recognize before. A purpose, beyond their purpose. I look at them and search for the merit they hold simply for being there. Not as something to be exploited, but something to be admired.”

You nod, and she continues.

“See, that one there. Theta-G1954. Located seventeen million light years from this point, with four equally sized planets orbiting it. It’s a white dwarf, a star on the verge of death. There’s an irony to that, I think. A star, dying! Those immortal souls, the highest beings of our universe, unaging to all but those who do not age with them. Yet…” She waves a hand at it. “There, it stands in your sky. But the light we see is not the light it gives now, for now, it gives none. It has already died; burnt away by the fires of its own making.” 

She looks at you. 

“It is ironic, isn’t it? You would not expect a star to die. Least of all at its own hand. Steven told me that there’s humor in irony; something about it to enjoy. I do not see it.”

The sound of waves on sand fills your mind as you try to think of a suitable response. Her hands never stop fidgeting.

The second meaning behind her words eludes you, but its existence is obvious; the weight of it can be felt like a presence lingering behind the two of you. Hidden enough to remain unseen, but so close as to be unavoidable. If you can’t find the mark here, you’ll swing around and address the root of her question.

“Maybe you’re looking in the wrong place?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” you’d have never taken her for an astronomer, but, “if stars were so important to your work, and you worked for so long...” an ‘eon’; you can remember single shifts that felt like that. “Then, yeah, you might not be able to separate them from it.” You bite the inside of your cheek, thinking for a moment before continuing. “So, you’ve got to find something else. You remember that baby bird, right? Back in Bullgrover?” What confidence you try to muster is marred by your inability to look at White directly.

“I do.”

“You seemed to get along pretty well with it. Even momma bird. Plants, too.” It’s difficult to screw up a relationship with a cactus, but not mentioning that will help your point. “Y’can’t connect with everything. No one can. Seems like you’ve already found some stuff that you do. You’re just focusing on the things that you don’t.”

It’s an empty answer, but it seems enough to placate her worriedness. 

“And… To that which I  _ do  _ connect… How do I… strengthen that bond?”

It takes a moment for you to pick through her words and understand what she means.

“No right answer for that,” you shrug. “I like riding around on a motorcycle, so I ride around on a motorcycle. It helps me understand riding around on a motorcycle. You like plants, so spend some time around plants. What’s that thing you do?” You pantomime her meditative stance with your arms. “That works pretty well.”

She doesn’t seem convinced.

“Doesn’t mean it’ll work right away,” you add. “Like you said, you’re still looking. Might not be plants you’re looking for, I don’t know. There’s a whole lot of space between us and where you’re going. You’ve got plenty of time.”

She hums, quietly, acknowledging your words. You decide to push your luck.

“But, a bit of advice, if you don’t mind. It might help to be a bit more open-minded sometimes.” You point a thumb at the ocean.

White grimaces. “That particular experience can wait.”

You laugh, and your smile spreads to White. The two of you lock eyes, if only for a moment. Her gaze is drawn forward, by what, you can’t tell, but you’re content enough to walk with her, simply enjoying the coming of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Yeah, there's gonna be a bit of a hiatus. Probably a week, week and a half. Two, at most."
> 
> >One Month Later
> 
> Whoops.
> 
> For an explanation: I got five-thousand words into a draft I fucking HATED, so I deleted it all and started over, but not before the end of the semester ate up two weeks of my time. Everything after mid-May is a blur I don't really remember, but I woke up with a hand-typed copy of this chapter in a manila envelope labeled "Geeter dun," so I had to take a bit of time transcribing it all.


	10. You Really Don't Get It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> White Diamond is weird.

The motel room is lit only by the fading lamp beside your bed and the faint glow of street lights leaking through closed blinds. 

You’re alone. White Diamond is outside on one of her night walks, exploring the forested path behind the building. It’s an uncomfortable thought. For several reasons. 

Still.

Is she looking at the stars? It’s difficult to not think back on your conversation from earlier today. 

An old LED clock flashes in the dark.

2:43 a.m.

Yesterday, then. 

She told you that she’s on this trip to “understand”.  _ What _ she wants to understand seems to change each time you ask, and she’s never told you  _ why _ .

There are a few things that  _ you’d _ like to understand, but you can’t bring yourself to ask them. She’s hardly been secretive when it comes to details about herself, though, what she seems to believe doesn’t entirely line up with what you’d consider being the truth.

What did she describe herself as, ‘walking starlight’?

If  _ she  _ thinks that’s true, then it won’t matter how often you ask.

You rap your pen against the edge of the page and mutter under your breath. A small patch of ink forms where the pen’s tip strikes the paper.

~~_ Washed-up Actress _ ~~ _ (would have brought up roles by now) _

_ Eccentric  _ ~~_ Millionaire _ ~~ _ Billionaire _

_ Cult Leader/Member _

_~~Time Traveler~~  
_

_ Scientist (what kind?) _

~~_ Mad Scientist _ ~~ _ (seemingly sane) _

_ Yoga Instructor _

~~_ Ghost  _ ~~

~~_ Reverse Vampire _ ~~

_ European _

~~_ Super Hero _ ~~ _ (doesn’t stop crime) _

There’s more than one reason you never went into investigative work.

You write a new entry below the others then toss the note pad towards a garbage can on the other side of the room; it smacks the wall above it and lands at the can’s side. You’re rolled over and halfway asleep before it hits the ground.

~~_ Washed-up Actress _ ~~ _ (would have brought up roles by now) _

_ Eccentric  _ ~~_ Millionaire _ ~~ _ Billionaire _

_ Cult Leader/Member _

_~~Time Traveler~~  
_

_ Scientist (what kind?) _

~~_ Mad Scientist _ ~~ _ (seemingly sane) _

_ Yoga Instructor _

~~_ Ghost  _ ~~

~~_ Reverse Vampire _ ~~

_ European _

~~_ Super Hero _ ~~ _ (doesn’t stop crime) _

_ Weird ✓ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not too keen on making promises I can't keep, but I think we're nearing the halfway point of this little story we've got going. I'm not sure if that means there's another twenty-five-thousand words left, but we're close to that point in my initial outline. That's about all I can say with any confidence.


	11. Beach-stop Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steven is Confused™

“They’re at a beach,” Steven Universe mutters, looking down at his phone.

Connie Maheswaran stops reading. Her eyes narrow as she double-checks her surroundings. “Steven, so are we.”

“I know, I know. It’s just…” He squints, thinking, then groans and sets the phone on the towel he sits on.

“Whatever it is, you don’t seem very happy about it.”

Steven brushes a curl out of his eye and rests his chin in his hand. “I don’t even _know_ if I’m not happy about it. Or just confused, or worried, or whatever.”

The two lock eyes and Connie moves closer, resting on her knees. She pats the ground in front of her, and Steven scoots his towels towards her. She holds out her hands, and he takes them. “Walk me through it. What’s up with White?”

“I never said it was about her.” 

Connie raises one of her eyebrows.

“But it is,” Steven confirms.

“You said ‘they.’ Is she still with that other person?” 

“Yeah.” He opens something on his phone and hands it to her. “Look at these. More from Ronaldo’s forum thing.”

For the briefest second, the urge to re-adjust her glasses flares up in Connie’s mind. Old habits.

The first image shows White Diamond and her leather-bound companion standing in front of an old gas station in the desert. A stack of tin cans sits next to the building, and the biker holds a small rock while White watches, her arms folded.

As Connie holds the phone, Steven reaches over the top and swipes to the next picture.

Seemingly taken several seconds after the first, several rocks now litter the ground behind the still-standing stack of cans. The biker stomps the ground, their leg blurred by the motion, and White holds a hand against her chest, laughing.

It’s almost enough to make Connie snort. But these alone wouldn’t be enough to worry Steven. And that desert doesn’t look like a beach. “There are more?” she guesses.

He nods.

The next post is a video: from the blurred leaves on its edge and grass filling the bottom half, it seems to have been taken from the inside of a bush. A large, run-down house sits alone in a clearing in a forest; a sign is posted amidst a graveyard in the field in front of it. Written in splattered green paint, it reads ‘HAUNTED MANOR: RETURN OF THE SKULL-ETON.’ Whoever has recorded the video shushes an unintelligible conversation happening off-screen. Someone whispers, “Look!” and the camera zooms in on a window near the ground. The biker bursts through the glass and stumbles out into the field before breaking into a run. White crouches through the broken window and watches as a prop skeleton is dragged through the grass, its wiring caught on the biker’s jacket.

Faintly, a voice can be heard as they look over their shoulder and continue to run. “It’s following me! It’s _following_ me!”

White rubs her chin then turns towards the camera, unprovoked. The video ends with the recorder’s gasp.

Outside of simply containing White Diamond, Connie can’t see what about them has Steven worried.

“Then there’s this one.” He swipes to another picture.

It shows the two of them on a beach. White has projected a new outfit-- a swimsuit --and the biker, still in their jacket, wears one of their own. Paired with the leather, it looks a little tacky. They’re tapping White’s shoulder while looking at the camera. The next photo shows White turned, and the biker pointing towards the photographer. The third has the biker laughing as White faces the camera, flipping it off.

“I see.” 

He sighs. “Then…” He swipes again.

It’s an upload of a photograph of a print-out of a screencap of security camera footage. White looks into the camera’s lens, her face and hair obscuring much of the shot. From the top corner, the biker can be seen crouched in front of an ATM, a small tool in hand, and a large pile of money near their foot.

“I’m not sure if this person is the best influence on her,” Steven says.

Connie nods. “I don’t trust White.”

Steven gives her a moment to elaborate. 

She doesn’t.

“She’s made a lot of progress,” he says, “and I guess this is kinda still progress. Just… maybe not in the right direction.” He shrugs. “You know what I mean?”

“I do. But weren’t you raised by space-criminals? Didn’t _we_ become space-criminals? I get it. This _is_ different, but…”

“Yeah. Kinda. You’re right. I think.” He rests his chin against his palm. “That’s what’s got me confused, I guess. I don’t want to get in the way of her learning, and, to be honest, I don’t want to be the one teaching her, but I’m really not sure if she’s getting the right lessons from the right people.”

“If you don’t want to deal with White, maybe you could try talking to the person she’s traveling with? Make sure they aren’t doing anything _too_ bad. Other than the stuff on the blog, do you know anything about them?”

“Sorta. Not really.” He takes his phone and thumbs to a different page, then points about halfway down the screen. “They’re calling White ‘Enigma.’ I don’t know if that’s a code name or if they just don’t know her real one, but the biker is being called ‘the Dark Rider.’”

Connie almost laughs as she sees the title of the forum thread: ‘Enigma and the Dark Rider: Who are they? Where will they appear next?’

“It’s like a super-hero team,” she says. 

“Or super-villains,” Steven adds. He holds his arms out and drags them across the air as he speaks in mock presentation of a title. “Enigma and the Dark Rider: the bane of tourist traps and ATMs everywhere!”

That’s enough to do it. The two of them burst into laughter, enjoying the thought. 

“If you do talk to them, be careful,” Connie says. “The _Dark Rider_ ,” she says the name in a comically low voice, “sounds pretty dangerous.”

It looks like Steven is smirking, but his expression seems one of more confusion than confidence. “I’m pretty sure I can deal with one person.”

Connie folds her arms. “Do you remember how our last sparring session went?”

“Fair. But I’m super sure that you’re the most dangerous human on the planet, and I can still do _this_!” 

He launches forward, and all she can do yelp in surprise as she finds herself looking towards the sky, scooped up in Steven’s arms. He rests his forehead against her own; the new smile on his face holds only adoration. 

That won’t be enough to save him.

“You’ve forgotten one thing,” Connie says, worming her hand out of his sight.

“What?” Steven asks, completely unaware.

The only response he receives is a sharp, “Ha!” and an unbearable tickling sensation in his side. No mercy is afforded and the desperate pleas of Steven Universe go unheard as Connie Maheswaran exacts her counterattack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like two short chapters in a row, but I like needless padding even less, so here we are. In case it isn't obvious, Steven will (eventually) become a bit more of an active player in this story, especially as White and Reader get closer to their destination.  
> As this fic isn't beta-read (entirely due to me not knowing HOW to get beta-readers; I am open to offers), I'd like to ask what everyone thinks of it so far, especially if you have more critical opinions. Like I mentioned in the earlier chapters, I've never written anything of this scope, so I'd like to make sure things aren't flying off the rails without me noticing.  
> Also, I may or may not be planning another (two) fics of potential equal length to this one. I won't start on them until this one is finished (and only God knows when that will be), but my ideas right now are  
> 1) ReaderxPearl: Reader is a human who's acting as Pearl's assistant to her jobs in Little Homeworld. They convince Pearl to train them as a knight, and consequences happen.  
> 2) ReaderxAmethyst: Reader awakens with no memories and finds out that they're a human/gem hybrid of dubious origins. Imagine Frankenstein (the book), but the monster gets found by people (the Crystal Gems) who don't immediately try to kill it.  
> Only problem is that I can't decide which idea I want to do more. I'm using you guys as my polling group: which one sounds more interesting/do you want to see more?  
> I'm gonna leave a strawpoll in case someone wants to cast a vote but not comment.  
> https://www.strawpoll.me/20350356


	12. Northbound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you make no further progress towards any of your goals.

**2 DAYS LATER**

  
  
  


You don’t remember going into the bathroom. This doesn’t even look like the one from the motel you’re in: it’s  _ way  _ too fancy compared to it. 

And… dingy, too.

Everything here is porcelain and plated gold, but stained by mildew and a grayish haze; it’s like someone left a humidifier on and forgot about it for a decade-and-a-half. You wipe a layer of grime off the mirror, then thank God that you’re wearing gloves after you see what’s left on your hand. It’s still too grungy to call clean, but you can make out your reflection.

What were you doing in here?

An empty glass rolls across the floor, and your mirror-self shrugs.

You leave, knowing that you have better things to do. 

The door opens to an empty parking lot, lit only in its center by a single, flickering street-lamp. The asphalt is warped, with weeds growing through the wide cracks that criss-cross its surface. A dark forest of pine and oak surrounds the lot. Beyond the trees, there is only darkness.

You’re standing beneath the lamp, looking towards the sky. Faint, faded stars do little to liven its countenance, and you cannot see the moon.

Beside you is a man, lounging in a dirtied pool chair. He wears patterned swim trunks, an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, and large, star-shaped sunglasses. You know who he is, but have forgotten his name. 

“How the hell did you get here?” you ask.

“How did you?” he replies.

“I don’t have time for smart-assery.”

“And I don’t like your tone.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

He chuckles, as if the two of you are just friends, playing out a joke. “She’s in the forest,” he says, pointing a paper umbrella-capped drink towards a particularly shadowy segment of the treeline.

Against your better judgment, you follow the strange man’s directions and head for the woods. He waves you off, and you introduce him to your middle finger. The full height of the trees is only realized as you approach: they’re almost twice as tall as you thought they’d be, and just as far away as you were expecting to walk. The grass is thick and damp, sticking to your boots and sucking them in on each downward step. A pale mist flows from the forest’s edge, and the air grows colder the deeper you travel.

You’re close to her, you can feel it, but the most you ever see is a flash of white before she’s disappeared, with your only clue towards her whereabouts being the flicker of a smile in your memory and the glittering of a gemstone in the corner of your eye.

Your pace quickens and you ignore the branches and leaves that smack against your face as you run. She laughs as you stumble; the faster you go, the further away she seems to be.

You’ll never find her like this, scrambling through the underbrush. The only signs of your progress are a face reddened from exertion and wettened by sweat and the damp air. You stop, your breathing level, as you wait for signs of White.

It doesn’t take long.

“Oh, navigator! I’m so terribly lost, and desperately require your aid! I’m too stubborn to admit it, but I value your advice and find you to be exceptionally enjoyable company.” Her hand appears from behind a tree, and she beckons you closer.

You find her standing with her back turned to you as she looks toward the sky. 

“I am quite lost, you know.” Her voice is flat, and she doesn’t move. “Alone, even. I thought you might help me.” 

Though you wish to speak, no response comes.

White levels her gaze with a gap in the trees ahead and says, “I don’t think we’ll see each other again.” She begins to walk away, and you try to follow, but your legs have sunken into the grass, and you can’t pull them free. You try to shout, but the words are stuck like cotton in your throat. The last you see of White Diamond is the end of her cape as she walks into the shadows and disappears. 

One by one, the stars sputter out and die. The night grows darker as the extent of your solitude is realized. Grass grows up the lengths of your legs, and no amount of struggling saves you from its ever-tightening grasp. It pulls you down, and your arms find no purchase, helpless to stop your descent. You cry out, your shout cut short by the choking hold of the earth as you’re swallowed by its mass.

The vision fades, replaced by emptiness and a distant blaring.

The sound grows louder as you wrest yourself from your slumber and smack the table beside your bed, aimlessly striking at an alarm clock you can’t see. You  _ could  _ see it, if you wanted to, but that would mean that you’d have to open your eyes, and you aren’t quite ready for that.

A familiar voice speaks. Petty disdain has replaced the emotionless dismissal of the woman in the dream you’re already starting to forget. “Are you finally going to shut that damnable thing off? I do try to accommodate your eccentricities, but this one is particularly aggravating.” 

Your hand makes contact with the off-switch and the alarm cuts out with a sharp   
_ click _ . You don’t open your eyes, but still look towards the sound of her voice. “Dee. You said a naughty word.”

“And you’ve finally called me something that’s  _ almost  _ my name. Remarkable, how much we’ve both changed.” You don’t have to see her face to know what kind of expression she wears.

You roll out of the bed and practically fall onto the floor; the jolt of the impact finally forces your eyes open. White watches you with her arms folded as you straighten up and out, fighting off the lingering drowsiness of the early morning. She continues to look at you, saying nothing, while you wait for her to do the opposite of that.

Is she waiting for something?

“You, uh… waiting for something?”

Why does  _ she  _ look confused? 

“You are the one heading this trip, are you not?”

“In general, yeah. But Fanta Se was your idea.” You gesture to a green pamphlet sitting on her bedside table that she found in a general store the day before.

“One that  _ you _ agreed to.”

“It was still  _ your _ suggestion.”

“A suggestion I made under the assumption that you would continue doing what you’ve done since we began travelling together.”

“Hollywood, if you’re gonna go asking for pit stops, then I’m going to assume you’ve got some kind of schedule for it.”

White sighs and presses a finger against her temple. “Are all humans so stubborn?”

“Only the fun ones.” You shoot her a pair of lazy finger guns and start walking towards the bathroom. “My mouth tastes like roadkill, I’m gonna scrub down the ol’ chompers. Wait for me at the bike.”

She gives a wordless sound of acknowledgment, then takes the brochure and leaves.

You close the door behind you and grab your toothbrush from its case. The motions of brushing your teeth are mindless. Your thoughts drift towards other matters.

For example-- you look towards the curtained tub to your left --do you have enough time to take a shower? 

It would take a while.

Would it be rude to make White wait that long?

Probably.

What if you take it really fast?

The mirror begins to fog, and the beginning of your dream comes back into focus, distracting you from your previous line of (very important) thinking. The room you stand in bears no resemblance to the one from the inside of your mind, but the superficial similarities jolt you into a state of heightened lucidity. 

Dreams are supposed to be prophetic, right? Or they reveal your ‘deepest, hidden feelings,’ or they’re your brain working through old memories and tossing them in a mental garbage dump. You’re pretty sure you read something last year about how people can psychically communicate through them, but that website also had a store page that sold literal snake oil, so it probably wasn’t all that credible.

Still, it might be a good idea to stay out of forests. Getting vored by evil grass is not something that you want to go through again.

And what the fuck was up with that guy in the pool chair? 

Weird shit. 

At least ‘weird’ is White’s normal. 

Sort of. 

Her voice rings through your mind, disjointed and unformed. One phrase, more recent than the rest, rises above the others, fighting its way to the forefront of your consciousness, repeating itself over and over as you try to understand what it means and why it feels so important.

_ “Are all humans so stubborn?” _

It’s certainly an… interesting way of phrasing things. 

One that, of course, leaves two realistic possibilities.

Either White Diamond feels so utterly isolated from her own kind that she refers to them as ‘others’ that she, herself, is not a part of...

Or…

...

Well. Maybe it leaves one realistic possibility. 

To be fair, you  _ have _ considered the idea. More than once. But it’s been a sort of game between you, and absolutely no one else. You looked at it the same way you would the thought of buying a car.

It’s just that: a thought, one with no real chance of ever being true.

That might not be  _ the  _ best comparison-- or a good one at all --but it gets the point across.

Kind of.

It’s just…

You’ve seen some weird shit in your life, and, even though you were drunk, you’re eighty-percent sure you’ve been within a half-mile of Bigfoot. Strange things are out there. But  _ that _ strange?

Your mind isn’t completely closed off to the possibility. It’s just not accepting anything close to the sort right now. 

Or ever.

The faucet trickles, even after the knob is twisted and the flow of water stops. Steam fills the air and you can barely see your reflection. Blurred eyes look back at your own; wiping the mirror clean only reveals the lack of surety on your face. 

On a more positive note: this is probably the cleanest your teeth have ever been.

You leave the bathroom, toss your things in your bag, and head for the door.

  


* * *

  


White Diamond is sitting immaculately in the sidecar, reading _The_ _Tourist’s Guide to Fanta Se Portable Pamphlet_. By ‘reading’, you mean that she’s staring at one page and completely ignoring everything else.

There’s a flower garden in the city, and, if White has been talking at all, it’s been about that. She doesn’t  _ act _ excited, but you’ve never seen her so interested in something before this. It might have been charming if the sudden obsession wasn’t so… obsessive. 

You sling your bag in the trunk-- White doesn’t even look up as you walk by --then mount the motorcycle. You clear your throat. She doesn’t look over, but you decide to speak anyway. “I’ve, uh… noticed a couple of times where you’ve…” you roll your hand, trying to put your thoughts into words, “...You a fan of flowers?”

“Among other things.” She continues to read the page, clearly occupied.

“That right?” you ask, deadpan.

“I wouldn’t have said it if it were not.”

Great talk.

You nod and start up the bike, then pull out of the parking lot and return to the road.

  


* * *

  


After who-knows-how-long of empty deserts and sun-baked rocks; grass, trees, and tall, cloud-capped mountains are all you could ever ask for. The two of you are headed north now, riding up the other side of the same range of mountains you traveled down on the first leg of your trip. 

Your planned route had you passing through Fanta Se, regardless of White’s request; the only thing that’s changed is that you might be there for a few extra hours. Another night, at most. This is no different, you reason, than any of the other little side trips you’ve taken White on so far, save for the fact that it was her idea, which bypasses your new ‘no more pointless side trips’ policy. You doubt that you’ll hold to your own ruling, but it’s nice to pretend that you’ve got some semblance of discipline.

The growl of the engine fills what silence would have existed between you and White under different methods of travel. It’s not like you’re missing much potential conversation: neither off you are the talkative sort, and White has a new travelling partner in that paper of hers. At first, she was reading from it normally, but after getting onto the highway the wind became too strong and it buckled under the pressure, folding against her wrists and hiding its contents. Instead of realizing that the universe was telling her to put it down and look at literally anything else, she started holding it with both hands like some kind of ancient queen with an open scroll. It isn’t even the right way up.

About an hour back, you had taken a stop for gas and asked why she didn’t just do the easy thing and tape it to the inside of her helmet. White didn’t say anything, but you  _ know _ she was actually considering it.

You’ve half a mind to knock it out of her hands and send it flying, if only to see her reaction.

Her potential reaction is also the only thing  _ keeping _ you from doing that.

You watch her from the corner of your eye, looking for something, but not knowing what. 

Impeccable posture.

Laser focus.

Shining eyes.

...

Pretty cape.

Nothing out of the ordinary, then. Ordinary for her, that is. Compared to any other thing on this planet, there’s absolutely nothing ordinary about White Diamond. Even among the extraordinary-- things you never thought real --she manages to stand out. 

What if she’s not just extraordinary, but unique? And you can’t find out what she is because there’s no one or nothing else like her? A singularity, alone in the cosmos, desperately searching the world for… What? Another like her? Someone who understands?

What if you already know who she is? What if she’s been telling the truth?

Now that there’s an idea. Everything you’ve come up with, all your half-baked explanations and low-brow theories, and it turns out she’s just a pile of space-dust pretending to be human. 

A thought pops into your mind, a shard of knowledge you can’t place the origin of. Something about... physical matter coming from the insides of stars? That would mean  _ you’re  _ a pile of space-dust pretending to be human. Everything is. 

You look down. 

Even your bike.

...Maybe without the ‘human’ part.

But can it pretend to be something if it doesn’t know that it exists?  _ Does _ it know that it exists?

Your train of thought gets a little too philosophical to stay on the rails. You piece through the wreckage and file away the important bits in the ‘never think about this again’ folder of your subconscious. It might be a good idea to move on and focus on not crashing in real life, too.

  


* * *

  


“Is something wrong?” White asks as you pull off to the side of the road. She sounds more curious than concerned, but any response is more than what you were expecting.

“No,” you shake your head, “just need to stretch for a bit.” 

“I see.” She turns back to the pamphlet.

You slide off the bike and stand in the shade of an old tree, absent-mindedly inspecting its withered bark as you lean onto one leg, pulling the other out. “Y’know, it’s got a lot of health benefits.”

“Mhmm.”

“I think you’d enjoy it.” Your entire back pops in a way you didn’t think was possible. Damn, that felt good. 

“I don’t doubt that I would.”

“Are you sure you’re not sore?” You reach your arms above your head and try to hide that you’re looking at her.

“I feel quite alright.”

Your body goes slack. “Are you gonna check out any of the other stuff in that thing, or…?”

“I’m not interested in anything else it has to offer.” 

“Did you even look?”

She takes a moment to herself, seeming to think of a response, but then she straightens out the brochure and continues reading, not saying a word.

“How long are you gonna keep staring at that page?”

That gets her to stop. She glances at you before turning ahead, focusing on nothing. “I enjoy gardening. I enjoy things pertaining to it. You have your…” she flicks a hand towards the bike.

“...Motorcycle?” You fill in for her.

“Yes. You have your motorcycle, and I have my garden. I would like it if you would do as I have and not belittle another’s interests.”

You have to stop yourself from smiling, then fold your arms. “I’m pretty sure you’ve done that to me already. Like… multiple times.” 

She scoffs and starts reading the pamphlet again.

Maybe she’s just looking at the pictures.

  


* * *

  


You drum your fingers on the handlebar. The bike is idling, quietly grumbling as you and White wait in a fun bit of lunch-hour traffic on an off-ramp heading into Fanta Se. At least  _ she  _ has something to do. Reading license plates got boring before you even started, and creeping on what other drivers were doing stopped being fun when you realized everyone else was stuck in the same situation as you, with just as many ways to effectively entertain themselves.

It’s zero. There are zero effective ways.

You rest your head against your hands and groan, inching the bike forward whenever the car behind you starts to honk.

In situations like this, losing track of time might be nice; it’s just a nice, easy way to forget about something before it’s even done. Unfortunately, the opposite is happening. You are acutely aware of each and every passing second as time crawls forward slower than the traffic around you. 

This is the kind of pain that words can’t describe.

Driven by nothing, your gaze falls on a video store off the side of the road. In its window is a flyer, advertising a sale for the  _ Objective: Improbable  _ and  _ Dogcopter _ series, among other spy movies you don’t recognize. There’s a blurb that you assume is explaining it, but you can’t make it out from as far away as you are.

A DVD won’t do much for you right now, but the topic of the sale gives you an idea. You tap White’s arm with the back of your hand and wait for her to look at you before speaking.

She isn’t looking at you.

You tap her arm again.

Nothing.

You yank the paper out of her hands and hold it out of her reach, anticipating her trying to grab it from you. Instead, she turns her head, very slowly, in your direction, and coolly asks, “What?”

With her attention secured, you toss the brochure back at her and say, “I spy… something green.”

She raises an eyebrow and folds the pamphlet in her lap. “You’re a spy?”

Fantastic start.

“No, I--” You try to rub your temple, but sigh when your hand gets blocked by your helmet. “I  _ see  _ something green.”

“Is it important? It would be easier for me to find if you would simply tell me what it is.”

“It’s supposed to be hard. It’s a game. I find something around us, give you some of the details, and you have to guess what it is.”

She hums, then taps her thigh with a finger. “Those are the only rules?”

“Pretty much.”

“Very well.” She scans the surrounding area. “Something green…”

“Take your ti--”

“The grass.”

“No.”

“That car.”

“Nope.”

“Those lights.”

“Not even close.”

“A spacecraft.”

“Where would that even--?”

“That building.”

“Stop!” you say, quickly, but without raising your voice.

White crosses her arms. “I haven’t broken any rules.”

“No, but at this point, I should be giving you another clue.” You let the bike drift ahead, following the slow flow of the other vehicles. White waits for you to continue. “I spy something green and… nearby.”

“Everything I just said is nearby. Another clue.”

“That’s not how this game works, Hollywood.”

“Then I don’t want to play.”

“Oh c’mon, it’s not that bad.”

“If you’re really so desperate to play these silly little games, then I’ll call Spinel and leave you with her while I finish this trip alone.”

Who the fuck is Spinel? What kind of person names their kid Spinel? Isn’t that a drug?

No… You’d have heard about it if it were.

A flower? It sounds like a flower. At least that would make sense. 

“Who’s Spinel?” you ask.

“Someone who knows better games than you.”

Ouch.

Scathing as that was, you’re not letting her out of this that easily.

“How ‘bout this. I spy something green, nearby, and made out of paper.”

White sighs and takes a haphazard look around, before “giving up” and turning back to her brochure. On seeing it, her eyes shoot open before she forces them back to a more neutral expression. She holds it up, watching your reaction. “Is it this?”

You nod. “Nice job.” Her face remains passive, but she seems to sit a little taller after your confirmation of her success. “Wanna play again?”

White hums in agreement. “However,” she holds a hand against her chest, “ _ I  _ will be the one spying the object this round.”

You lean back and let her begin.

She takes in the surrounding area before settling her eyes directly above your own, staring at your helmet. “I spy something… round.”

It would only be fair to make this look hard. You click your tongue in mock thought and a finger against the bike’s speedometer, looking around. White follows your gaze, hiding a smirk. That doesn’t mean you’re going to go  _ easy  _ on her. You point a finger at the side of your head and ask, “Is it my helmet?”

White’s eyebrows raise, her smile grows wider, and you realize you’ve fallen into a trap. She puts the back of her hand against her already covered mouth and lets out the smuggest sounding laugh you have ever heard. She moves her hand to beneath her chin and holds it in a fist, her expression morphing into one of fake pity. “You would think so,” she explains. “However, I must admit that I have deceived you. Knowing that your object in the game is to identify that which I have seen, I focused on something that would keep my eyes upon it, drawing  _ your  _ attention towards it, while showing  _ me  _ something else entirely. You would think that I was looking at your helmet, however, I was instead looking at the reflection of my  _ own _ . How would you ever suspect something that I could not even see? How could you hope to guess anything but that which I manipulated you into assuming was the object of my attention?” She holds her hands in her lap and looks ahead. “I’m afraid there was no scenario where you could have won.”

You run your tongue across your teeth and nod, slowly.

Fuck.

“...Yeah. Well.” Time to bring out the big guns. “That was cheating.”

“What!?” She’s turned towards you faster than you can blink.

“You said you saw the  _ reflection  _ of your helmet. Not the real one.”

“That hardly seems--” You hold up a hand, stopping her.

“ _ And,  _ you were still looking at my helmet to see it. Not yours. You can’t spy something if you were never looking at it in the first place.”

She scoffs. “That wasn’t a part of the rules!”

“Really? I must have left it out.”

“You’re making this up!”

You shrug. “Every game is made up.”

White grumbles, “If I had Spinel here…” She throws a sideways glance at you, frowning. “Steven would agree with me.”

And you still don’t know who that is.

“Good for him.”

  


* * *

  


Half an hour later, you’re where you should have been twenty minutes ago. Most of Fanta Se is constructed in imitation of Spanish colonial and Pueblo architecture; the browns and reds of the bricks and clay shingles stand out against the grey mountains on the horizon and sea of green that surrounds the city. An even more stark contrast comes in the form of the building ahead: the greenhouse garden is a dome made from beams of silver metal and blue glass; it’s almost frustrating how much it stands out from the rest of the city.

White is about two-dozen feet in front of it, comparing the actual building to the photo in her pamphlet, no doubt making sure that she’s not at one of the  _ other  _ hundred-foot-tall inner-city greenhouses.

You take your time finishing the walk towards her, letting your body sway with the momentum of your stopping. The glare of the sun reflecting off the glass forces you to shield your eyes, even with sunglasses on. You say, “I spy something big, blue, and a pain in the ass to look at.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what it could be.” She heads to the main entrance, and you decide to trail behind her, rather than take the lead. With how prepared White is for this compared to every other establishment she’s been to, a part of you wants to see how well she’ll handle getting inside on her own. 

There’s a small entry booth just outside the main doors. Inside it is a woman, slowly clicking through a computer program you can almost make out reflected on her glasses. If she notices White Diamond, she doesn’t show it. 

White takes a step forward, clears her throat, and says, “This is the Fanta Se Private Botanical Greenhouse.”

The woman in the booth looks at White and does an incredibly slow double-take. She purses her lips. “Yep.”

“I would like to purchase two,” White holds up two fingers, “tickets for the purposes of entry.”

“OK.” The woman punches some keys and a small machine whirrs as it prints the tickets out. 

You were too busy watching it work to notice what caused the woman to look at White like she’s from another planet. All she’s doing is holding out a handful of cash.

Wait.

Where did she get that?

Was she hiding it in her hair?

Why didn’t she let you pay?

The click of a register’s drawer draws your attention back to the present. White thanks the attendant and starts walking towards the entrance. Before you follow, the woman in the booth taps the glass, getting your attention, then points towards White and asks, “Who… is she?”

You can only shrug and start walking.

  


* * *

  


It fucking sucks in here.

You pick at the collar of your shirt, sweltering in the heat and humidity. Your jacket is already tied around your waist, and you don’t feel like getting kicked out yet, so your shirt will have to stay on.

The inside of the greenhouse is mostly open air. Across the floor, several dozen rows of planters stretch from one edge of the dome to the other; they’re filled with what looks like hundreds of different kinds of flowers, bushes, grasses, and even tiny trees. The smallest plants have several tiers of shorter planters stacked above them on shelves made from metal piping. 

White is crouched down, resting on her heels in front of a planter on one of the bottom racks. It’s empty, save for a single, pink flower. She holds a hand out and traces the edge of its petals, her fingers only a hair’s width away from touching them. 

You check the clock on your phone.

She’s been looking at this one for fifteen minutes. 

In different circumstances, you might have left her to it and found something else to do, but she wears a look of melancholy you’re starting to find familiar. 

“Is there something… special about this one?” you ask, trying to keep your voice low. Other than the color, it looks like every other flower nearby.

White drops her hand and sighs. She closes her eyes, and her expression shifts, almost seeming happy. ‘Nostalgic’ might be more accurate. She reaches for the flower again, but stops herself with her other hand and slowly rubs them together. Now, she looks tired. “It reminds me of someone. That’s all.”

The hell it is. Nobody gets like this unless there’s something deeper going on, and as far as you remember, she’s only mentioned three people from her private life, and she never gets like  _ this _ when she brings _ them _ up. 

This would, then, be the work of a fourth party. 

You might not know a lot about White’s life, but with what you do have, it’s not difficult to start putting some pieces together. 

It’s also a clear enough picture to tell you that probing her for answers isn’t the kindest course of action.

Leaving her like this might be just as bad.

“You wanna… talk about it?” you ask, hesitantly.

White stands, still looking at the flower. “I would prefer not to.” Her face hardens and she walks away.

At least you tried.

The next hour is spent in silence. You shadow White as she inspects the different kinds of flora present in the greenhouse. You’re not sure what her goal is; she doesn’t ask any of the gardeners for information on the plants, which would imply that she’s already familiar with them, but the way she’s staring at some makes it seem like she’s never seen anything like them. You’d ask about it, but she hasn’t paid you any attention since the pink flower, and you’re not sure if she’s in a bad mood. 

Come to think of it, she might need some space. God knows  _ you _ could stand to get out of this heat. White doesn’t even look like she’s sweating.

“Hey,” you stop yourself from using a nickname, “I’m gonna head back out for a bit. You don’t have to stop… browsing.”

She hums, not looking at you. You’re not even sure if she was acknowledging what you just said.

“Right.” You wipe your forehead with the back of your hand and head for the main entrance, avoiding the various hoses and loose tools littered across the floor. Stepping through the door, you take your jacket from your waist and sling it over your shoulder, then nod at the woman in the booth, who doesn’t even seem to notice you’re there. 

With the bike in view and White… probably safe, you lean against the greenhouse’s wall and watch the clouds above drift over the city and eastward plains.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another "chapter got too long and all the good stuff has to be put in part 2," so that's pretty fun.  
> A few things to be noted:  
> -Pool chair dream guy isn't anyone important, or even a real character. I'm only saying this because I feel like it might confuse someone; I just like writing inane things into dream sequences, it makes them feel more authentic. One time I had a dream about being abandoned by my family, then Fred Flinstone threw me into an alligator pit. They don't always make sense.  
> -If you read that and thought, "If it serves no narrative purpose and would likely just confuse the reader, then wouldn't it be best to remove it entirely?" Then you're absolutely right. Write him into your version of Reader's backstory and I'll make the one I like most canon.  
> -If you read all that and thought, "If you don't want the dream man to seem important, then wouldn't it best to NOT dedicate an entire post-chapter notes-block to him? Wouldn't that only elevate his seeming important in the eyes of the reader?" Then you're also right.  
> -If you read all that and thought, "Did you really think you could get away with changing Santa Fe's name and expecting us to consider it a completely different city with no actual connection to its real life counterpart?" Then yes, I absolutely did. It's Fanta Se. Like Fantasy. Fantasy City. Fake City. I am a genius.
> 
> And it looks like PearlxReader is the next fic after this one. Considering I don't even know when the next chapter for the one I'm already writing is going to come out...  
> Let's just say that one is coming any time soon.


	13. Answers and Advice

_Search History - (Descending)_

  
  


_Highlights from (Last Week)_

_(Show More)_

_8:37 a.m. - why don’t birds like me?_ _-_  
_9:21 p.m. - can humans photosynthesize?_  
_9:23 p.m. - never eating around other people_  
_-_  
_1:51 a.m. - skin glowing normal?_  
_1:51 a.m.- glowing skin causes_  
_1:53 a.m.- symptoms of second-hand radiation exposure_

  
  


_Yesterday_

_(Show More)_

_2:14 p.m. - fanta se greenhouse_  
_2:17 p.m. - are greenhouses fun?_  
_-_  
_9:04 p.m. - cheap motels near me_

  
  


_Today_

_4:31 p.m. - how to ask about someone’s past_  
_4:31 p.m. - how to ask about someone’s past nicely_  
_4:31 p.m. - how to say sorry for something you don’t know about_  
_4:33 p.m. - how to show sympathy_  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it isn't clear, the "Today" portion takes place directly in between the previous and next chapters; the different formatting made it feel awkward in a full chapter, so I think it works better on its own. Real chapter tomorrow.


	14. Dinner, not-quite-a-Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pasghetti

This really shouldn’t be that difficult. It _isn’t_ difficult. It’s just a question. Just a question about this “mystery person.” Maybe one. Maybe two. Maybe too personal.

Do you have the right to ask?

If what’s going on is what you _think_ is going on, then…

What? Then _what_?

You don’t know. When it comes to White, that’s just par for the course. You’ve been traveling with her for… how long? Several weeks, at least. Still, you don’t know anything concrete about her. Not why she’s here, not where she’s from, not who she is, not _what--_

You groan and shut your laptop, then lean back against the bike. The sun sits between its highest point and the horizon; the light it casts is blocked by your motorcycle, leaving you in the relative coolness of the shade.

All you have to do is ask.

Simple as the action may be, it’s not without risk. How would White react to something so direct? To a subject as potentially volatile as… _that_ ? It’s difficult to pin down what might happen when you’re not even sure what you’d be asking about. You have _ideas_ regarding what it is she’s talking about, but you have ideas for a lot of things, and they’re usually not very good.

Is it better to wait? Though not directly forthcoming, White has given you enough information to recognize something deeper without saying it aloud. It might be smarter to let her continue leaving breadcrumbs until you’re out of the forest, instead of diving headfirst into a pool you can’t even see. At the rate the two of you are traveling, there’s plenty of time for that.

What about after?

The terms aren’t written, but there isn’t much ambiguity in “take her to Beach City and you’re done.” When you get there-- wherever it is --you’ll make sure she gets to whoever it is she’s getting to, then… Go back to bar hopping and robbing ATMs?

Find someone else to drag to the other side of the country?

You run your finger along the fold of the laptop and open it, then close the internet browser and start up a word processing program. That website said something about getting your thoughts sorted before you bring anything up, and with how long White has been inside the greenhouse, you’re guessing you’ve got plenty of time on your hands.

The computer’s screen is a dull white, almost yellow; the color faded by failing hardware. A single black bar blinks in the top-left corner. Your hands hover over the keyboard, but the words in your mind are blocked by each other as they fight for prominence on the page.

From the corner of your eye, you can see the shadows move as your fingers don’t.

You wouldn’t be doing this if there wasn’t more than one thing on your mind, and the same issue is keeping you from starting at all, so, to get the ball rolling, you press a single button: the ‘-’ key, designating this as a list, yet to be written.

Wonderful.

Now, to do everything else.

The sun slides down the sky and the shadows surrounding you grow longer. The black bar taunts you still, joined by its horizontal compatriot. You look to the bottom-right corner of the laptop’s screen.

5:14 p.m.

All right. Break it into chunks.

You’ve got plenty of “Who?”s “What?”s and “How?”s, but there are really only two “Why?”s you need the answers to.

Your typing is slow, methodical; a contrast to the maelstrom in your mind. It takes almost a full minute to type out a single line. This isn’t a script, but you can’t help but imagine what would happen if you were to say it aloud.

_-why are you doing this?_

The first is obvious enough. It seems like something you should know by now. At first, you didn’t care, but, by the time you did, things seemed too complicated to just… ask. In hindsight, they weren’t, but now that you’ve waited so long…

It’s entirely possible that she’s told you and you didn’t notice. It seems even more likely that she hasn’t. White isn’t exactly a standard model of social etiquette. So would she care? Really, it’s a question you should have asked the day she found you.

And that leads to number two.

_-why did you pick me?_

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


For being early summer, it’s already really fucking hot outside. You wipe your forehead with the back of your hand and try to ignore all the bugs you can hear nearby.

That’s definitely a thumbtack. Biggest you’ve ever seen. World’s biggest, according to the plaque beneath it. Hardly seems like something to be proud of, but you’ve never had the experience of owning the World’s Biggest Thumbtack, so who are you to talk, really?

You do, however, have some things to say about its location: twenty minutes off the main road in a forest with no other establishments in a ten-mile radius makes the whole thing seem more like a serial killer’s half-baked plot to snag some fully-baked tourists than anything trying to operate as a legitimate business. It’s hardly surprising that there are only four other people here, and they all seem the types to enjoy an “attraction” such as this. On a fallen tree, sitting together, are two men who make old people look young; opposite them is a scruffy looking man with a sense of fashion twenty years out-of-date. He’s trying (and struggling) to take a picture of the thumbtack while a young girl plays with a beetle in a patch of dirt behind him.

You take a deep breath of the pine-laden air and scorn the warmth of the sun as you try to justify coming all the way out here for so little.

It’s not working.

You turn on your heel and start the short walk back to your bike; dried pine needles break beneath your boots as you go. Reaching the motorcycle is fine. It’s only after you’ve slung a leg over the seat and prepared to start it that something strange happens.

You’re flicking an ant off the bike’s dashboard-- and almost hitting the custom ‘EXTRA FAYSTE’ switch you installed yourself --when you hear a voice from close behind.

“Excuse me.”

Your first thought is that they sound rich. Your second is that one of the people behind you sounds very different from what you would have expected. On turning and actually seeing the source of the sound, your mind runs a blank. You cover your eyes to get rid of the glare from the sun, but the glare is a _person_.

A really fucking tall one, too.

Your eyes focus and you stop squinting.

What the _fuck_ kind of outfit is that?

Is she wearing a _cape_?

You’re squinting again, but it’s not because of the light.

There’s a diamond on her forehead.

That is an honest-to-God diamond, on her forehead.

Why is there a diamond on her forehead?

She’s still looking at you.

Has she said anything else?

“I take it you’re the owner of this vehicle?” she asks, wearing a blank smile on a face cut from marble.

“...Yeah.” You can’t think of anything else to say.

“Wonderful. I’m currently in the midst of... a little trip, you could call it. A sort of vacation. I find myself in need of transportation.”

You’ll say. You were the first one out here and you didn’t see her come out with anyone else. Where the hell did she come from?

She has her eyebrows raised and the smile is wider. It’s one of those, “I already know you’re going to agree with me and I’m only asking so that you have to accept and take responsibility,” looks that you’ve (regretfully) encountered several times before.

You know what she’s getting at, but ask the question anyway. “What’s that got to do with me?”

Her lips purse and you have to hold back a grin at her obvious dissatisfaction. “I suppose I should explain myself clearer. I would request that you take me to my destination.” She smiles again and gestures to the sidecar, and, by extension, the half-foot pile of old receipts, crumpled bags, and empty bottles that cover its floor. The woman, just now, seems to notice, and her smile falters for the briefest moment before she corrects herself. “That is seating for a passenger, yes?”

Ones who aren’t eight feet tall, sure.

You nod anyway, then ask, “How’d you get out here?”

“Hmm? Oh, I was dropped off a little ways over there.” She waves a hand towards the edge of the clearing.

“In the middle of the woods?”

“Yes.”

“...And you walked?” you ask, flicking your eyes towards the pillar heels she’s wearing.

“Yes.”

“What’s stopping you from walking the rest of the way?”

“Approximately three-thousand miles, seven major rivers, and two mountain ranges. Not that they would _stop_ me, of course,” she raises her eyes as she stresses the word. “It’s really a matter of convenience.”

Well. You were already leaving. Still...

“You’re not with the feds, are you?”

“No?”

“You running from them?”

“If you’re referring to this country’s government, then, truthfully, we’re on amicable terms.”

That’s boring. “Anyone got it out for you?”

“In what way?”

“Y’know.” You point a finger-gun to your head and pull the trigger.

“Ah. None I haven’t dealt with already.”

Now _that’s_ closer to what you want to hear. “And where are you headed?”

“Beach City.”

You have no idea where that is. Well, you have _some_ idea of where that is: the opposite fucking coast of this continent, if what she said earlier is right. Too far to take her directly, but you’re headed to Bullgrover anyway, and there’s an airport there. Unless it finally got shut down for that rat thing.

That’s for her to figure out.

You look between the woman and the garbage patch next to you. There’s a trashcan next to the thumbtack. It might be big enough.

“Gimme a minute to get this cleaned up.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


For the second time in an hour, you close your laptop, sigh, and lean against the side of your bike. There’s a patch of rust next to your head, right by the gas tank. Against your better judgment, you pick at it, alternating your focus between the falling flakes of metal and the door to the greenhouse. You don’t fault White for staying in as long as she has: she’s been looking forward to it all day. But out here, alone, you’re left with few options for much of anything. Any mindless time-killers are ineffective because of how easy it is for your thoughts to drift towards what you’re trying to not think about, and anything that’s supposed to occupy your attention fails to do so when your mind is already fixated on what you don’t want it to be.

Confronting the thing head-on has only given you an incomplete list and the beginnings of a headache.

You’ll just have to wing it.

Of course, now that you’ve reached the closest thing to a solution you’ve got, you have nothing better to do than sit and plan out all the ways you’ll do this... without any planning.

The first step: Ask her about what you want to know.

The second step: …

Well. It really is that simple, isn’t it?

It doesn’t fucking feel like it.

And it doesn’t help that you haven’t even decided what you want to ask about first. Or, are you going to sit her down and say, “Hey, quick question. Are you depressed because someone broke up with you, or did they die? What’s with the rock in your forehead, why are you so tall, why are you white, and are the last three things connected? By the way, are you even human, or is that part too rude to ask?”

That’s bound to go over well.

At least now you’ve got the list figured out.

After a few more minutes of brooding, the doors open and White, ducking her head and holding her cape off the ground, emerges from the building. You stand and hold your laptop at your side, but before she comes over, she says something to the booth lady that you can’t hear. The booth lady must have said something back, because White nods, then begins to walk towards you. Trying to act natural, you calmly-- and too stiffly --pop open the trunk to the sidecar and place the computer within, hiding it under some old maps and a beaten-up notebook. By the time you’ve closed it, she’s already standing next to you. You can’t get a read on whatever… that emotion is, but her face is flat. There’s something in her eyes; whether she’s simply lost in thought or focused on something deeper, you can’t say.

Not moving your hands from the sidecar, you ask, “Did you… have fun?”

“I can’t say that it met my expectations.”

“Oh.” You put your hands on your hips and idly tap your foot against the pavement.

Neither of you speak.

You click your tongue and point a thumb at the bike. “You wanna get out of here or…?”

“I would.” White slides into her seat with the kind of easy grace that only she can seem to manage.

You nod and do the same, if, perhaps, a little less dignifiedly. With the key turned, clutch held, and ignition switched, the bike is roused from its slumber and begins to purr beneath you. You walk it off the curb and put your helmet on.

White isn’t wearing her’s.

You tap her arm and say, “Hey,” then point to the floor of the sidecar where she left it. White looks at it like she’s forgotten why it’s there, then picks it up and runs her thumb along the already fading design you scribbled onto the forehead. She puts it on and looks ahead, her hands now folded in her lap. As you twist the throttle, the bike growls and carries the two of you back onto the road. You slip into an opening between two cars and let the road decide your direction.

It’s pretty cool how the traffic is back. It really helps the mood marinate. It just lets you stew in the moment. It’s slower than before. Not in terms of speed, but in how people are treating it. No one is hugging the tails of other drivers, there isn’t anyone honking, and, so far, no one has started throwing soda cups at anyone else. It’s all very calm, and you really wish it wasn’t. You’re drumming your fingers against the handlebars, not out of boredom, but because of a nerve you can’t seem to calm.

It takes almost ten minutes (and less than two blocks) for you to realize that you don’t have any idea where you’re going. A hurried look around doesn’t reveal any hotels, but you haven’t eaten since morning, and even though there’s a general store three lanes to your left, counter hot dogs and potato chips don’t sound very filling.

You decide to keep coasting, and see if anything catches your eye.

Anything other than White.

Who you are staring at.

You look back to the road, hoping she didn’t notice, but right now it’s impossible to tell.

Just think about the food.

...And how White doesn’t eat any.

Alright.

There are probably hotels nearby, you should keep an eye out for those. It’s been a long day: just think about checking in, throwing everything on the floor, climbing into a bed, and have you ever actually seen White sleeping?

Your grip on the throttle gets tighter.

That’s a neat car. You like cars, right? You should get _that_ car. It’s all cool looking and… pink. What an interesting color. It raises a lot of questions about the owner of the vehicle. For example: who paints their car entirely pink? Why would they pick such a garish tint? Do they like that color? Or is it because it reminds them of someone else who hurt them and/or possibly died?

You rev the bike, unable to move forward. White looks at you for a moment before turning back ahead, but the bike growls, spurring you on. An opening in the traffic appears, a perfect shot across two lanes that leads straight ahead as far as you can see. You turn the wheel, angling it towards freedom...

And… Oh, cool! A restaurant! What a nice thing to focus on completely because you love food and because it isn’t a distraction. Wow. It’s Italian. Even from the street, you can hear the faint sounds of live instrumentals. The building looks nice. Very Italian. There are columns in the front not connected to anything. Grape vines are painted onto the walls, but the grapes look more like blueberries. There’s a sign above the door with a portly chef holding a plate of noodles while winking at the viewer. A glowing, neon speech bubble is next to his head, giving the illusion of him saying, “It’s-ah Pasta Place-ah!”

“This-ah was-ah not-ah built by a real Italian!” seems more fitting.

Fuck it, it might have bread-sticks.

You twist the throttle as hard as you can and the bike’s front wheel kicks into the air, forcing you to lean forward and White to yelp and grab the rim of the sidecar as she’s almost thrown from her seat. The rapid cut across two lanes and a sidewalk curb gets you a few honks and a minor case of whiplash, but before you know it, you’re already in the parking lot and pulling out the key.

White flattens her clothes and pulls her helmet off with slightly shaky hands. “We’re stopping here, then?” she asks.

“Well, we’re not moving here,” you say, blankly. She looks at you, her head slightly cocked to the side. You get off the bike and hold her gaze, not saying anything. You clear your throat and walk inside.

The interior has dim lighting with cheap chandeliers hanging over every-other table, all of which are covered in plastic red and white checkered sheets. It isn’t what you’d call a busy establishment, but there’s enough noise from other patrons to get on your nerves.

Through a window at the back, you can see the source of the music you heard earlier: a trio of musicians at the edge of a courtyard outside. Curiously, despite several tables being set up, no one else is out there.

The first thing to greet you is not a waiter, but a wax statue with a warped face and a speaker for a mouth. It’s dressed in a toga that looks like it used to be white and holds a wine glass that has the outside poorly painted in a facsimile of liquid within. The speaker-mouth crackles to life and says, “Get-ah your-ah pasta, right-ah now!”

On cue, a very pale, tired looking waiter in an over-sized apron steps out from around a corner with a bowl of buttered-- and seemingly unseasoned --pasta in his hands. He holds it out to you and, in an accent that (thankfully) isn’t at all Italian, says, “Welcome to the Pasta Place, here’s your first,” he sighs, “but certainly not best, taste of--”

The door opens behind you, and the waiter gawks, looking over your shoulder. He mutters, “What the…?” before sighing again and saying to you, “Hold on.” He forces the pasta bowl into your hands and steps back around the corner.

You don’t have to look to know he saw White.

She stands beside you and moves to poke the wax figure, but draws her finger back before contact. “I do hope that isn’t what they really looked like.”

You grunt out a short agreement, then the waiter returns with another, slightly larger, bowl of pasta and holds it out towards White. He clears his throat and prepares for the spiel again, but you hold a hand up at your waist, and lightly shake your head.

“Oh, thank God,” he says. “Where do you want to sit?”

“Somewhere quieter than here,” you say. You nod your head towards the courtyard and ask, “Why isn’t anyone out there?”

“Oh. That’s reserved for… you know.”

“I don’t,” White chips in.

“...Yeah. She doesn’t. Could you explain it for her?”

He looks between the two of you. “It’s like… special reservations. _Special_ reservations. You know.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Actually, it’ll be perfect for you two. Follow me.”

He leads you and White on an unnecessarily winding path through the multitudes of tables, guests, and other servers. White bumps into more than a few chairs, despite herself.

The three of you reach a metal door. The waiter opens it and holds an arm outside. You and White step through, and he holds up an ‘OK’ sign towards the musicians; the one in the middle, a dark-skinned woman with a guitar, returns the gesture and he closes the door. White doesn’t notice, and you don’t care enough to wonder what it means. Seating yourselves, you sit across from White at a table in the middle of the courtyard. It’s metal, made from strands of iron wrought in an intricate web that stretches across the surface, ending at a twisted ring that encompasses the perimeter. The chairs are made in a similar fashion, and it does little for their ergonomics.

There are two menus standing in the center of every table; you take one for yourself, and slide the other to White, knowing she won’t pick anything. It’s more so that she’ll still have something to look at. Maybe it’s to test her. Maybe you just don’t want her to feel left out.

You hadn’t noticed as it happened, but now, the difference is clear: the music, once an upbeat, loud tune, has shifted into something slower, quieter, and more… what’s the word?

Keeping your head angled towards the menu, you look over to the small band. The woman with the guitar meets your gaze, looks at White, then back to you, and smiles before closing her eyes and playing a flourished group of notes and returning to the slower pace the band has set.

Looking back to the menu, it actually has more than just pasta, and though both you and White have completely ignored the complementary bowls that now sit at the edge of the table, growing cold, you’ve already had your fill of the stuff.

Something more solid, then.

Your eyes flit across the menu as you flip through the pages. Your mouth curls into a slight frown.

No bread-sticks.

Flatbread, though. That looks okay.

“You, uh… see anything you’re interested in?” you ask White, knowing her answer.

“No.” She taps the table, then looks to the side, as if remembering something. “But, I appreciate you asking.” Her voice is somewhat stiff, but she seems pleased with herself after speaking. She’s back to looking at the menu, so there must be some aesthetic value she sees that you don’t.

There’s no clock out here to tell the time and you can’t bring yourself to stop what you’re already doing and check on your phone, so for what seems like several minutes, you pretend to look through the menu while avoiding looking at White and what you want to bring up.

The waiter from earlier walks up to the table, a notepad in hand.

“Have you decided what you’d like to order?” he asks. He looks to White first, but she doesn’t acknowledge him being there, if she even notices.

“Uh,” you interrupt, “she doesn’t ea… order food.”

The waiter turns to you and back to White, who only stares in response. “Alright,” he says, scratching at his collar. “How about you?”

“Uh… That flatbread…” You skim the rest of the page. “And… put the cheese on the side,” you say, trying to make it seem like you’ve been thinking about this.

“Mhmm.” He scribbles something onto the notepad. “Will that be everything?”

Before you can say no, a flurry of movement next to White’s face catches your eye. It’s the woman with the guitar; she’s stopped playing, and pantomimes the holding of a menu, pointing to the bottom. You look to that spot on your own and see a fancifully bordered sub-section for bottled wine.

You look back at the woman, but she has her eyes closed and is back to playing with the band.

Most of the options look fine, until you see the prices. Nestled in the corner is a deep crimson looking one with a name you can’t hope to pronounce. It’s still a bit pricey for you, but what’s twenty dollars between…?

Are the two of you friends? Acquaintances, sure. Traveling buddies? You’re not sure you know her well enough to say she’s anything more than that. There’s a way to fix that. Maybe this’ll get you drunk enough to do it.

“Actually,” you say, pointing to the wine, “one of these.”

“That’s certainly… a choice.” Behind the droopiness of his tired face, you can almost see a sneer.

Without lifting your finger from the page, you drag it up to your next selection: a sparkling white for ten dollars.

“The red wine pairs wonderfully with our flatbread, that’s an excellent decision.”

The woman with the guitar might be nodding, but she could just be bobbing her head to her own music. The waiter leaves, and you’re left alone again with White. She traces a finger along the webbed metal of the table’s surface.

Her face is blank, which isn’t entirely unusual, but with everything that’s happened today, it might mean more than usual. At the same time, asking too much might make things worse.

Start small.

“So, uh, Dee.” That’s a little too casual, but you can work with this. She perks up and looks at you. “I just wanted to, uh…”

The woman with the guitar nods, waving you on with her hand.

“I, uh…”

The musicians slow their tempo further, and the music really starts to sound kind of--

“Yes?” White asks.

Your throat tightens, and you can’t seem to swallow.

She raises her brow and her eyes seem to glow in the softened light of the afternoon.

No.

They are definitely glowing.

Human eyes can’t do that.

Maybe she’s wearing reflective contacts?

Yeah.

The woman with the guitar raises _her_ brows and nods her head toward White, still looking at you.

White asks, “Is there something you’re meaning to say? You’re not normally this…” she flicks her hand towards you, “...tentative.” As if to taunt you, her eyes sparkle brighter with the briefest glimmer.

You straighten your back and muster whatever courage remains within your heart. You look her in the eyes and say, “Sorry about how fast I went earlier. You looked uncomfortable. So. Sorry about that.”

She blinks, her mouth slanted in confusion. “Oh. Well, I’m quite alright now. I… accept your apology.”

“Cool.” You nod. “Cool.”

The entire band looks at you like you’re from outer space.

The door behind you opens, and the waiter is back. He holds a plate of flatbread on one arm with a wine bottle and two glasses in the other.

“Dinner has arrived.” He slides all the items onto the table with a level of skill that defies his otherwise lethargic demeanor. The flatbread is about what you were expecting. Namely, it being bread. Toasted tomato slices and a thin layer of seasoned oil coat the top, while a large clump of melted cheese sits on the side of the plate. “Cheese on the side… as requested.” The mild disdain in his voice peters out as he examines the scene. He and the musicians look to one another, and the woman with the guitar shrugs. Discreetly enough for you to grow more suspicious, the waiter holds his hand low and points a finger up, lightly jabbing it into the air. The woman nods and sets her guitar down, then pulls out a violin.

The waiter smiles at you and White, then pops the wine cork and fills the two glasses, sliding them towards each of you. He takes your pasta bowls back with him and dumps the contents into a garbage can by the door then walks back inside. The musicians have, again, shifted their style of play. The sheer emotion in the music would be obnoxious if not for the undeniable skill of those performing it. That doesn’t change how little it fits how you feel.

You pick at your meal and take a few stilted sips from your wine as no one says anything at all.

The feeling in your throat worsens with everything you try to swallow.

White has closed her eyes and, almost imperceptibly, waves a finger through the air, slowly following the melody of the music around you.

Your heart quickens, but you don’t know why.

The song swells, and a smile forms on White’s lips. She whispers, “I’ve never heard music like this before.”

What else hasn’t she experienced? Things any human should have?

A bead of sweat runs down your back, and you shudder under its touch. The woman who had a guitar smiles at you. It’s genuine, likely meant to be reassuring. What comfort it’s meant to provide fails to find you. When she tilts her head towards White and smiles again, a jolt runs through your heart and your limbs lock in place.

You look at the person across from you and wonder if she really is one.

Why now? For weeks you’ve been with her, knowing something is different, yet never caring. Why now? What had you thought before that let you sweep it all under the rug? What was it you thought that let you explain what couldn’t be? You’ve met tall people before, yet none as towering as her. You’ve seen people who can do the extraordinary, yet nothing like what she has. You’ve known those who’ve known little of the world around them, but White knows so much, yet there are so many simple things she doesn’t understand. It doesn’t make sense. You’ve known this all since the day you met her. It’s as if today is the first day you’ve seen her for what she isn’t.

Where once there was a woman, eccentric by every standard and confusing in every regard, there is, now, someone else. Some _thing_ else.

Something else.

Anything else.

Just think about something else!

The pattern.

The pattern on the table.

It isn’t a web.

It’s a flower.

To say you speak would be inaccurate; what happens is more akin to a landslide of words. “So did they break up with you or are they dead?”

The musician’s instruments cut out with faltering notes and a sharp screech from the violin. They stare at you, agape, and the woman who tried so desperately to help you then looks to the ground and slowly exhales in disbelief.

White has stopped moving entirely. Her finger is frozen in the air, and she slowly curls it back into her fist before resting her hands in her lap. She tilts her head to the side and stares at you, mystified. “What?”

You seize up but speak anyway, already falling off the cliff.

“The person you keep talking about. The one you… when you look at flowers and stuff. Or, nature things, you get… the one you… when you were talking about stars and the flower that reminded you of someone… you… Y’know.”

Silence.

Her face is almost a grimace.

“You’re talking about Pink.”

Are you?

“Pink…” You look at White, and something clicks. “Diamond?”

In an instant, her face falls. She closes her eyes and sighs; a harsher sound emerges behind it before she wrests it back and lets her head drop.

“Hey, wait I--” you reach across the table, not knowing what you’re planning to do, but she holds up a hand and stops you.

“Don’t.”

You pull yourself back. With no other course of action available and no idea what to say, you slump into your chair, unable to look at White directly.

She breathes in deeply through her nose and lifts her head to the sky, her eyes still closed. You open your mouth to say something, but she speaks first.

“I must correct myself. Her name was Rose.” She nods at her own words. “That was what she wanted.”

Why does that sound familiar?

White looks at you. You’ve never been able to get a handle on her age, but if, right now, seeing her eyes, she said she were a thousand years old, you would believe her. “You recognized my pain well enough to reason its cause, despite me never telling you of her. She is gone. I will say as much and it is _all_ I will say.” She has now, on her face, a sternness you’ve never seen in her before, and the look in her eyes sends a shiver down your spine that you haven’t felt since you started to travel with her. A choked gasp escapes you, but White doesn’t react to it. She turns away towards the sun and her face softens. “However, you asked if she… ‘broke up’ with me. I do not know what that means.”

Yeah, this is a great fucking time to explain that.

“It’s… when you love someone… or when you stop loving someone… or, you still love them, but you can’t… Um… And it’s not like family love either, it’s _love_ love, but…” You tap your thighs and exhale. “Uh… so, you have a romance kind of love with someone, or, you don’t and that’s why you break up with them, but you’re in a relationship, and they, or you, end it. It’s not usually very pretty.”

“Rose was my family. I… don’t think that term is applicable.”

“...Yeah. Probably not, then.”

Neither of you look at the other. You poke at your plate, slowly spinning it in place. White sits almost entirely motionless. You don’t bother to look at the band, but you doubt they’re doing much of anything productive, either.

White holds her head up and clasps her hands together, then breaths out through her nose. “After asking about the nature of his conception--” Wait, what? “--Steven told me about ‘healthy boundaries’ between individuals. I believe this may be an appropriate time to... establish some.”

You wince.

“If you should find me,” she holds her hands together at the fingertips and angles them forward, “ _ruminating_ on subjects and items related to Rose, I would appreciate time to do so alone.”

So, sticking around in the greenhouse was a mistake.

“I do appreciate your assistance, but that is a matter I would tend to personally. Because it is personal.”

“Right.”

“But, to avoid future situations like… now, I think it would be a good idea for you to ask any further questions you may have.”

And fuck things up even more? Fat chance of that.

But your “game” of trying to find the answers on your own ended up with you here, so maybe clearing the air and getting everything out is a good idea?

Or you could end up clouding the air and suffocating in it, so maybe showing a bit of restraint is the smarter thing to do.

Keep it simple.

Non-accusatory.

Nothing personal.

“I’ve never seen you sleeping. Is that…?”

White looks surprised by your question, but answers anyway. “I don’t have the need to. In fact, my meditations exhibit many of the rejuvenating qualities of organic rest cycles.” There’s that scientist-talk again. What is that now? Geologist, astronomer, _and_ biologist? It could all just be a hobby, but if you’re asking questions…

“Are you a scientist?”

Again, it seems like this isn’t the direction she was expecting things to go. “I wouldn’t call myself one, no. But an encompassing knowledge of the natural world was applicable to my line of work.”

“What was your ‘line of work?’”

Her face darkens, then becomes something akin to shame. “I do not wish to speak of it.”

“Alright, okay. That’s fine.” Don’t fucking push it. “Um…” Lighten the mood a bit. “Isn’t that meditation-sleep thing something that monks do?” You saw that in a documentary once. Framing something you already know as a question gives you an answer to something else, and letting White think teaching _you_ something should be a good way to help alleviate some of the tension.

“I have no idea.”

Never mind.

You have half a thought to bring up the eating thing, but a more realistic explanation you’d found online was that it could be the result of a phobia or mental illness. Right now seems like an awful time to approach anything close to that. Besides, all those “night walks” she likes to take more often than not pass by take-out restaurants and vending machines. She’s got her own money hiding somewhere, you know that much. “Secretly eating when no one else is around” seems a bit more likely than “literally does not eat at all.”

Perhaps the largest body of evidence against the second option is her own. No one gets that much meat on their bones (or even bones at all) without something going in.

So, she doesn’t sleep because she can meditate whenever she wants and gets all the same benefits. Very normal.

It doesn’t seem like she eats anything because she only eats when no one else is around. Entirely mundane.

The height could just be good genetics. She isn’t exactly lacking in other… physical aspects. The iron webbing of the table's surface criss-crosses her lower body and legs; it almost looks like she's wearing lingerie. You feel warmer.

Must be the sun.

What about the baffling lack of knowledge regarding everyday… everythings? A sheltered childhood could explain some oddball inconsistencies, but any amount of adult experience would prove too educational to allow for the gaps in information she possesses. Unless the sheltering or reclusiveness of her life had extended _into_ her adulthood.

You prepare for this question to not be answered and ask, “Were you… sheltered a lot? Before you started,” you hold your arms out, referring to the trip, “all this?”

White takes a moment to think. “In a way, I suppose. You could say I had a hard time getting out of my own head.” She laughs; a few, awkward bursts that stop the moment she sees you aren’t doing the same. You force a smile in sympathy, but she waves you off and shakes her head. It doesn’t look like she’s going to expand on that answer, so you’ll leave it at that.

And it’s really that simple.

Here you were, not even five minutes ago, wondering if White was even a human being, when all your worries were the result of miscommunication and a lack of openness. You can’t really say the two of you have gotten better at dealing with those things, but this is the first step of many, and it might not even be a path you’re going down.

She’s just a woman. A woman with baggage and what is undoubtedly an extraordinary life’s story, but a woman all the same. And you were getting ready to start carrying a silver bullet and wooden stake. It’s almost enough to make you laugh, but there’s one more question you’ve got. A final detail that cannot be ignored. One that you can’t stop from worming its way to the forefront of your mind. It would be easier to ignore it. Pretend like it’s not there and act like everything is fine. Even with everything else explained, this one, alone, should have been enough for you to call things into question.

Might as well get it over with.

“What about the glowing?” you ask, almost whispering.

White’s brows furrow, but she smirks, and a playful edge lines her tone. “I believe I’ve explained this to you already… multiple times.”

Right. “Walking starlight,” and all that. The woman who seems to dabble in every field of science imaginable is also one who thinks she’s a living beam of sunshine. Being smart doesn’t mean you can’t be crazy. Really, the two go hand in hand.

You know she isn’t annoyed by your questioning-- not that particular line of it, at least --but maybe enough is enough. For now. You haven’t gotten any kind of cancer from being around her yet, so an explanation isn’t entirely necessary.

Even if you really want one.

It’s like she said, “healthy boundaries.”

It’s not even important.

If she’s as book smart as you’re starting to assume she is, then maybe she’s a geneticist as well? Plenty of animals can glow, and you’ve heard about scientists swapping genes around and making glow-in-the-dark mice. Who’s to say it wouldn’t work in humans?

That fits with her not wanting to talk about her old job, too. “White Diamond: disgraced geneticist who went too far and gave herself a bunch of crazy glowing powers to fit her religious beliefs better.” Or, maybe the religion came from the powers.

Maybe that’s what happened to Rose. The flowers. Gene transplants. “What she wanted.”

There is a greater than zero chance that White Diamond killed her own family member by turning them into a plant.

Or maybe that’s really fucking stupid and White is looking at you like you’ve lost your mind. Which, you may have. Shame it hasn’t made you any smarter.

“Are you alright?” she asks. “You seem very deep in thought.”

You shake your head and quip, “Deep as a puddle.” A brief pause later, you add, “How are you doing?”

“Alright, I suppose. It does feel nice to be candid about these things.” She smiles faintly, and you notice the music has returned. A glance to the musicians shows them tentatively playing their instruments as they watch the two of you.

The woman who is still playing the violin looks you in the eyes and mouths, _Don’t fuck this up._

“So…” you say, poking at your plate, “Is there anything you wanted to know about me?”

“Hmm? Well, I don’t--”

“It’s alright if you don’t,” you interrupt. “You don’t have to. It was just…”

“Do you want me to know more about you?”

“I mean, I was just putting the offer out there. Y’know. You don’t have to take it. But, I guess, if you do…”

“There’s nothing that comes to mind.”

Oh.

Okay.

Cool.

“That’s alright. Y’know. It’s just an offer.”

“Of course.”

The woman with the violin cringes.

The conversation seems to have run its course, and you finish most of your own. There’s only a tomato slice and some of the cheese left. “I can order some more of this if you want to try it later,” you say.

White looks between you and the dinner. “Is it good?” she asks.

“Enough for me to offer.”

“Hmm.” She reaches forward and takes the rim of the tomato slice between her nails. She holds it in the fading light, then, to your complete shock, brings it to her mouth and takes the smallest bite from its edge. She chews like a horse with enough manners to keep its lips closed; she swallows it like a pill two-sizes too large going down dry.

You’re expecting a look of disgust and several minutes of retching, but she only holds a slight expression of thought, her mind clearly occupied with processing what just happened, much the same as your own.

“I suppose I can see the appeal.” She puts the tomato back down and wipes her nails on a napkin you hand her.

“If you’re ever open to trying anything else, just, y’know. Ask.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The music is calm now, the emotion being forced before left behind for something neutral. Soothing.

In the next few minutes, the sun sets behind the mountains and the cool shadows of early evening fall over the city. You finish your meal and glass of wine, with White even trying some of her own, which she enjoys more than the physical food. She takes three whole sips from her glass, almost bringing the volume down by a quarter of an inch.

The tired waiter returns once more, and you pay in cash, throwing in a twenty for his tip and three more for the trio ahead of you. The waiter recorks your wine, takes your plate and glasses, then nods as you and White leave through a gate at the far side of the courtyard. You do so in kind and look towards the musicians, who finally seem satisfied with whatever you’ve done. The woman holds a wavering thumbs up and raises an eyebrow, questioning you. You give a thumbs up of your own and she smiles as the other two members bump fists.

You’re still not sure what all that was about, but they seem happy.

Back at the front, you slide onto the bike and slip the key in. White enters the sidecar and you hand her the wine after she puts her helmet on.

“Try not to drink it all on the way to the hotel, yeah?”

“We’re done for the evening, then?”

“Almost. There’s something else I want to grab.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The hotel television crackles into silence after you fumble with the remote long enough to find the ‘OFF’ button.

You have to hold a hand over your mouth to stop the laughter; White moves her attention between you and the TV, her confusion obvious, even through the tears in your eyes. “I don’t think I understand the joke.”

“It’s, um… it’s because,” you have to stifle the laughs that still spill out, “the whole movie… right? The whole movie this robot is trying to… it’s trying to get her attention. Right? A robot! And you think… you think--” you finish the glass of wine and set it down at your side “-- you think, ‘Oh, it’s a robot, how can she love a robot?’ But then the robot starts, I mean, you just watched it, you know, it starts acting human.”

“I remember, yes.”

“So it’s trying to be human. Trying to… not be a robot. And it, well, then you think to yourself, ‘Okay, so it’s gonna act human, she’s gonna realize it feels more than you’d expect a robot to feel,’ right? And then it’s gonna, she’s… they’re gonna,” you ball your hands into fists and tap them together at the knuckles, raising your eyebrows as White watches, “and that’s, like, kissing, by the way. Not… not the other thing. I don’t think robots can…” you roll your hand, leaving the implication.

“I don’t believe so,” White says.

“So this whole time, you think it’s gonna happen, she’s gonna notice it, but… she doesn’t. She doesn’t! The robot confesses at the end, and she thinks it’s a glitch! Objective improbable. That’s why it’s called that. It’s like a double… double enten… double entree. ‘Cause the spy objective is hard, and the robot convincing someone it’s, like, thinking and stuff, that’s its objective. That’s hard, too. Y’know. Improbable. And it doesn’t work. You don’t expect that. It always works out in movies. But it didn’t. It’s great.” You grab the bottle and pour another glass. “Funniest shit I’ve ever seen.” You let your head fall back against the edge of the bed and stare at the ceiling, a dumb smile plastered on your face.

“Are you sure it’s meant to be humorous?”

Your eyes narrow. “...Yeah? What else would it be?”

“Something closer to a tragedy, I suppose.”

You look at her, squinting, but unfocused. “Those are funny, too. I’m pretty sure they were the same thing at first.”

She doesn’t seem convinced. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“You should--” you drink half the glass in one go, “--I know a lots of stuff.”

“I’m sure of it.” She rises from the floor and glides onto her bed, then crosses her legs and closes her eyes.

“Hey, Hollywood?” you slur.

“Yes?”

You turn to her, barely able to keep your eyes open. “Are we friends?”

Her lips purse. “If my understanding of the term is correct, then I believe so, yes.”

You lean back and let your entire body sag against the bed frame. “Badass.”

The alcohol and tiredness of the day take hold. Your eyes cross, and you pass out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hard to believe this thing started almost four months ago; this entire year has felt like a decade.  
> I was going to ask if anyone had been driven off by the inconsistencies of my upload schedule, but then I realized that they wouldn't be here to answer, so...  
> New Question:  
> Is there anything you DON'T like about the fic so far? This is, generally, a very supportive community, but I'd like to hear some more critical opinions, if any of you don't mind sharing them. I'm thinking of doing an editing pass of everything I have written so far. If there are any common issues people have I'd like to try and address them sooner and hopefully bridge some of the writing-style drift that has occurred since I started.


	15. So, it's taken a while to get here...

**ONE HANGOVER AND SEVERAL STATES LATER...**

  
  
  


“...but, we made it.” You lazily sweep your hand through the air, ending on the tiny help center next to the park’s entrance. “Dee, it is my dee-stinct pleasure to introduce you to Yellowrock National Park.”

White scrunches her nose up at your excuse for a pun, but the surrounding landscape captures her attention and, as far as you can tell, your verbal misstep is soon forgiven. Forgotten, at least.

Mountains have been a feature of the distant horizon for the majority of your trip so far; all that changed leading up to this was what direction you had to look to see them. But here, now? They dominate the land and your vision no matter where you turn. Snow-capped peaks meld into the vibrant greens of trees and the bleak greys of broken stone; the forests that blanket the mountain sides fade into fields of golden grass and flowers of a thousand hues. Standing still, you can feel gentle winds that carry the smell of pine and the songs of birds out onto the rolling fields behind you. All that’s missing is a buffalo herd, a howling wolf, and a narrator warning viewers about an allergy medication’s needlessly long list of side effects. 

“Why are we here?” White doesn’t sound annoyed. However, she looks at the scene before her with something closer to mild curiosity, rather than the sheer awe you were expecting.

“You said you wanted to come,” you say, focused more on the view than her words.

“I didn’t.”

Huh? Involuntarily, you shake your head. That can’t be right.

You go over every memory you have of White mentioning places she’s wanted to visit. She probably just forgot. There’s her destination, obviously: Beach City. 

Then, that sushi restaurant with the giant inflatable squid. 

The greenhouse back in Fanta Se. 

And… 

Uh... 

“Are you sure?”

“I would remember.” 

Yeah, well, you  _ do  _ remember her saying that. 

She said that, right?

Why the fuck else would you be here?

“Huh.”

White looks at you as if she’s waiting for you to say something more. 

You’ve got nothing. 

“Hmm,” she agrees.

You watch a steady stream of tourists follow the dirt path to the entrance and into the park beyond. Just as many fight the flow, seeking to leave. It looks a little rowdy, but it’s not the busiest you’ve seen a place like this. Even if White never  _ specifically _ said she wanted to come here, it fits her gist, right? All this nature shit is right up her alley. It’s not a  _ pointless _ side-trip if you’re doing it with her in mind. It’s like a… a bonding activity. A two-person get-together. There’s probably a better word for that, but it’s enough to justify things for you. That, and the several dozen gallons of gas it’s taken to get here.

You tilt your head up towards White, who looks down at you. “So, do you wanna go in anyway, or…?”

“I see no reason why not to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what fic isn't dead B)  
> Finally got a new job; turns out night-shifts tend to cut into someone's designated writing time when that writing time is at night. Whodathunkit?  
> Considering that, I've decided to take what would have been a longer chapter and split it into multiple, smaller chunks simply to that it doesn't take me two months to put out one update. I've got a new schedule set up, so we'll see how later chapters turn out.


	16. Rocks, and Things Regarding Them

It’s hot outside, which makes sense, considering the time of year, but the shade from the canopy of trees above and around you shields you from the worst of the heat. Even under the open sun, it’s easy to find the temperature agreeable. Being in the middle of a forest rather than one of your inner-city haunts means that you don’t have to deal with the stench of sun-cooked garbage that’s been left on the curb for a week. That shit gets nasty.

“Why do they call it Yellowrock?” White asks, holding a clearly not-yellow rock. “I’ve yet to find any.”

“I think there are some in the geyser pools,” you say. “Doesn’t seem like enough to name the entire park after them, though.” You kick a rock off the path into a patch of bushes while White gently returns hers to the exact place she found it, even taking the time to line its edges with the indent it left in the ground. For all the reverence she shows then, White makes no effort to hide the disgust on her face when she sees the layer of dirt that now cakes her fingers. “Y’know,” you say, “I’ve heard the mud here is good for your skin. Lots of clay and nutrients. You just gotta get it in real good, like this.” Her lips pull back, exemplifying her expression, when you rub a hand against your face, showing her what to do. “Exfoliates the pores. It’s great.”

“Ugh, perhaps for  _ your _ kind. Not all of us require such crude methods to maintain the magnificence of our luster.” The standard smug sense of superiority dominates the tone of her voice, but there’s a softer edge to it, one that almost sounds playful.

“ _ My  _ kind? You calling me poor?” you hold a hand against your chest in mock offense.

White scoffs and looks away. “You know well what I mean.”

You nod, then shake your head sadly. “You mean to wound me,” you say, a posh tone creeping into your voice. “And in that endeavor, you have succeeded in a manner  _ most _ foul. I don’t know if I’ll ever know happiness again.” Dropping the act, you lean against a tree and fold your arms. “Y’wounded me.”

“I suppose I’ll have to have Steven heal you if it’s so terrible,” she says as she wipes the grime off her hands.

This guy again? After that whole “Pink Diamond” thing you aren’t exactly too eager to go prying into White’s past, but she's never talked about “Steven” like he’s “gone,” and if she’s the one who brought him up…

“This, uh, Steven guy,” you ask, trying to sound disinterested, “is he a doctor or something?”

“No, I don’t believe so. Why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s just… you said he…” White waits for you to continue, but by the look on her face, she’s getting confused, or slightly annoyed. “Who exactly is he? To you?”

She blinks and looks caught off guard. “Well, my family, of course. He’s... Rose’s son. Have I not said so before?”

You just had to find a way to bring it back to her, huh? 

You shrug. “Not that I can remember.” 

Family, then. That makes sense. The way she talks about him makes Steven seem younger than her, but, if he was  _ her _ kid, you figure she’d have brought him up more often, and White doesn’t really look old enough for grandchildren... “So, he’s like… your nephew? Cousin?”

It’s White’s turn to shrug. “Family.”

Fair enough. You rock yourself off the tree and continue down the trail, not waiting to see if White will follow. “That’s a relief.” 

The words are thoughtless. You don’t even realize you’ve said them until White responds. “Why do you say that?”

That’s… uh…

“I…” 

Good question.

“Well, you talk about him a lot, and… Well, I…”

“You what?” White asks.

“I… don’t know.” You scratch your head. “I don’t know.”

It’s true. You really have no idea what you meant by that. If anything, you’re more confused than White. She only seems to want to know what it is you were going to say next. You, however, are trying to figure that out  _ and  _ what it was you were saying in the first place. 

White Diamond is closed off when it comes to her past. Or, you’re not very good at getting information out of her.

That much is obvious.

One of the only people White will talk about is some dude named Steven. 

Alright.

She does this because Steven is her family. 

That’s relieving because…?

The ground in front of you becomes the focus of your attention as your train of thought grinds to an unenlightening halt. 

“Well, if that’s all, then we’d best be going.” White overtakes you while you stand, no longer thinking. She stops and looks over her shoulder. “I think it would be good for you to avoid the sun. Your…” she flicks her hand at you, “perspiration is quite apparent.”

Perspir-what-now? 

A bead of sweat runs down your neck, and you look down.

Christ, she’s not kidding. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


You follow White about a half-dozen feet back and a little ways to the side. It’s enough to (hopefully) keep any sweat-related smell away from her, and it lessens the ever-present sting to your ego resulting from you not being the one in front. The trail the two of you are on is easy travelling; it feels more like a dirt side-walk than a hike through the woods. You don’t find many others on it, despite its low difficulty. It’s a winding path, almost confusing, if not for the markers posted on the trees, and it runs parallel to an open trail that features a more direct route to the geyser pools. The few people you do find here are more occupied with the forest than other travellers: many of them don’t even seem to notice White, despite her proximity, and those who do are more confused by her choice of footwear than literally everything else about her. The whole of the hike, which lasts for a little under an hour, is uneventful, aside from you having to explain to White what squirrels are.

When the forest finally clears, the two of you find yourselves before a steaming pool of water in a flat expanse of yellow and reddish stone. More pools dot the landscape and in some of the places between them, the ground is pocked with dark, shadowed holes. From these, jets of steam, water, and gas loudly erupt dozens of feet into the air before drifting away in the breeze. A raised wooden boardwalk runs through the area. It’s near many of the pools, but far enough away from the geysers so that the few droplets of water that manage to reach it are cooled to the point of inconsequence. 

You tap White’s arm with your elbow. “See? Yellow rocks.”

She mutters something that you think is an agreement, then walks out onto the wooden path, joining the several dozen other tourists that travel its length. You take your time catching up and let yourself admire the shift in color between the forest and here. The hues of the stones remind you of the desert, if a little more vibrant. The sky, now visible, is a patchwork of pale blues and the white and greys of clouds. The water simply doesn’t look real. At the deepest point, it’s center, the richness of its blue rivals that of the open ocean. In a ring around it is the next layer, lighter than the last, and the kind of cyan you’d think only exists in a cartoon. The very edge is practically a neon green thanks to the yellowish rocks that border the springs. The contrast between the colors is astounding, made even more so by the abruptness of the changes between them. As well as this, the water is so clear that it looks more like a filter placed over the rocky bed of the pools. It’s  _ so _ clear that you’re tempted to snatch up one of the stones and see if someone has simply painted it blue.

That would, however, be really fucking stupid, because anyone with a brain knows that the water here is practically an acid hot enough to melt people down to the--

“What the fuck are you doing!?” 

White’s hand stops only inches from the water’s surface. She turns to you, confused, and asks, “What?”

“What the fuck do you mean,  _ what _ ? What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m getting a closer look.” She starts reaching forward again.

“Stop!”

White has the gall to roll her eyes and asks, again, “What? What exactly is the problem?”

“The problem? The fuckin’ problem here is that you’re about to lose your goddamn hand in a pool of boiling fuckin’ acid water and you’re acting like it in’t a goddamned thing in the world!”

White rests her hand against the edge of the boardwalk. Still far too close to the spring for your liking, but no longer in “imminent murder-death” range. “Really, I don’t know how many more times I must explain this to you. I am not so easily damaged as you are. I can say with confidence that there is nothing on this planet that can truly harm me.” 

Before she even thinks about moving her hand, you speak. “Okay, sure, you’re invincible, nothing can hurt you.” She’s  _ looking _ at you, but her hand is already reaching back towards the water. “ _ But _ ,” you continue, making her pause, “you…” 

What?

What would get her to stop?

Physically pulling her back might end up with the both of you falling in and turning into diamond-jacket-meat soup, and that’s assuming you could even move someone so much larger than you. She really doesn’t seem to understand the limits of her own mortality, and that angle wasn’t very effective a second ago, and you doubt that’ll change within the next minute. So?

She’s fucking going for it again!

“You can’t take the rocks!” you remember and say aloud at the same time. Finally, White pulls her hand back towards her waist, but she doesn’t stand. 

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“The rocks. You’re not allowed to take them out. There’s, like, ecosystem stuff you’d screw up, y’know? You’re not allowed to move them.”

She looks down in thought. “I hadn’t considered that, I admit. But what about the ones we moved before?”

She’s got you there. You’re pretty sure there’s a rule against that too, but at the same time, an exception there might mean she’ll try to make one here, so…

“Fuck those rocks. No one gives a shit about those rocks.  _ These _ rocks are the important ones. That’s, uh, why they named the park after them.”

“I see.” White stands, and straightens out her skirt. She looks back at the pool, and a small crowd of tourists look at her; whether it’s in disbelief for her attempted actions or the usual gawking she’s victim to, you don’t really care. You flip them all off before White can see, encouraging them to leave. Thankfully they do, but several return your non-verbal affection before they go.

You inch your way towards White, mindful of the ease at which either of you could fall off the path. She’s still looking into the pool.

“I’m sure they’ve got some of those in, like, a gift shop, or something.”

“Oh, I don’t need one to keep. I only wanted to confirm that it was sulfur. It’s a very abundant element, you know.”

“You telling me you were gonna fuckin’ Luke Star-runner yourself to see if a rock stank?”

“I do not know what that means, but, as I said, my physical form would have been fine.”

She really thinks that, doesn’t she?

“Alright, that’s cool. How about from now on you pretend like you  _ would  _ get hurt by stuff like that? Y’know, like us mere mortals.”

“I don’t see the point.”

“You’re doing this whole trip to understand people, right?”

“Among several things, yes.”

At the end of the boardwalk is a small family consisting of a man, woman, and child. The man holds the child on his shoulders, their backs turned to the hot springs, while the woman takes a picture of them both. You point to them, and White looks.

“You see them?” you say. “Those are normal people. They do normal things. They live normal lives. You and me? We’re not like them.” You hold a hand up, “For very different reasons, but, my point is the same: if you want to live in a world full of normal people, you have to act like normal people. Do things like normal people do. If you can’t do that?” You bite the inside of your cheek and look away.

White looks at you. “Then what?”

You grind the heel of your boot into the wood. 

“They push you out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this bit felt a little more substantial than the last one, despite it still being rather short. Next update should have A Meeting between two characters that I've had a lot of fun writing.   
> I'm going to set a deadline for myself and say that it will come out before the 15th.  
> Let's see how well I stick to that.


	17. An Encounter, Though Not One of Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teenagers are cringe, actually.

You’re not  _ worried _ . 

She’s just alone. 

In the middle of a forest.

By herself. 

There are bears here.

You’re  _ not  _ worried.

The fact that you’ve been drumming your fingers against the handrail and glancing over your shoulder for almost twenty minutes has nothing to do with White being away. 

Well, it does. But, it’s because you’re… bored.

Since she’s gone, there’s no one here to talk to. Well, there are. But, you… don’t know any of them. Talking to strangers is dangerous.

So is being alone in a forest filled with bears when the person in the forest might not even know what bears are.

God, what is she tries to  _ pet _ one?

You force a breath out of your nose and focus on the view. You’re standing at a cliff’s edge, the only thing between you and two-hundred feet of certain death is a rusting guardrail that starts squeaking whenever the wind looks at it funny. It is a very long fall. Not that you’re worried about yourself. It’s not like she’d be paying any attention to where she walks. Or anything else.

Would you have heard her?

Would she even know to scream?

What seemed like a perfectly good piece of advice before is now starting to feel a little inadequate. “Dude, just play along,” might work for sneaking into parties and robbing a bank, but as a rule to keep someone from getting themselves killed?

You aren’t White Diamond’s babysitter, but God _ dammit _ sometimes this gets rough.

You are not worried about her. She is her own human being and a  somewhat functional adult. She asked for some time alone. She doesn’t need you to check on her, and it would be demeaning to think otherwise.

She can handle herself.

…

She’s gonna get herself killed.

You push yourself off the railing, ignoring the sounds it makes, and swing around on your heel. Before you can take more than a single step forward, you collide with someone standing behind you. You’re almost sent sprawling back over the cliff, while they don’t move at all. You correct yourself and dust off your jacket, then say, “Alright douchelord, what’s the big idea? I’m walking h--”

Is that a fucking teenager? You cut yourself off at the realization. The kid barely looks fifteen and he felt like a brick wall. His arms are folded, and he stares at you with an expression you can’t quite get a read on, but it’s obvious enough that he’s not happy. 

You wouldn’t be either if you dressed like him. Jeans and sandals? Seriously? A black shirt and pink jacket? You can respect the colors, but a fucking letterman?

You stuff your hands in your pockets and step around him, not bothering to see what he wants. The look of surprise on his face gives you far more satisfaction than it should. “Can we talk?” he asks in a voice that’s likely meant to be civil.

“I don’t associate with teenagers,” you reply, not looking back.

“It’s important!” So important that, based on the sound of his voice, he isn’t even following you.

“Tell your parents.”

The path White took is straight ahead. Two thick trees arch over it in a not-at-all foreboding manner, and, only a few feet in, the trail is covered in shadows far darker than what one would expect considering the time of day. Before you can cross the threshold, someone steps out from behind the right-most tree. 

“How the fuck…?”

The tween in the pink jacket stands in the middle of the path, holding a hand up at his waist in a gesture asking you to stop.

You  _ do  _ stop, but it’s only because you’re too busy looking between where he was and where he is now.

“Okay,” he says, “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

The motherfucker’s fast, you’ll give him that. If outrunning him won’t work…

“You aren’t getting on a better one.”

He knits his eyebrows, then puts his hands together and points them at you. “You’re the one people call the Dark Rider, right?”

The  _ what _ ? What the hell kind of name is that? When would someone have started calling you that? Why would they have chosen that over literally anything else? The Dark Rider? That’s the dumbest shit you’ve ever heard.

You fold your arms and cock your head to the side.

…

The Dark Rider.

The Dark… Rider.

_ The _ Dark Rider.

Hmm…

Slowly, you begin to nod. 

“...Yes.”

“I’ve heard a lot of stuff about you,” he says, his posture relaxing as your own becomes more casual.

“I’m not surprised.” You look at the back of your hand instead of him.

“I’ve heard you’ve done a lot of… illegal… things.” He doesn’t sound nervous, but his voice lacks some of its earlier confidence. It’s obvious enough what he’s trying to get at, but you’re not going to play along that easily.

“I’ve seen some things.”

“Just ‘seen?’”

“Maybe.”

“Why are you avoiding the question?”

“Why are you asking it?”

“You’re making this more difficult than it has to be,” he says through his teeth. 

“Alright. I’ll keep it simple. Are you a cop?”

It’s not every day you get to use a word like “flabbergasted,” but that is the only word that could ever come close to describing the look on this kid’s face right now. “Wha-? No! Do I  _ look _ like a cop?”

“Y’sure sound like one.”

He screws his eyes shut and holds back-- what you are assuming are --some not-very-kind words. He jabs a finger at you and asks, “Are you a bad person?”

“Are you trying to get me to go to church?”

“I’m  _ trying  _ to figure out what your deal is!”

“Look kid, you’re the one who got in my way, I don’t see why you’re upset about it.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about!”

“Then you should probably stop bringing it up.”

“I--!” He turns away, red in the face, and begins breathing heavily. 

For a moment, you’re almost worried you’ve pushed him too far, but, just as quickly as he turned around, he faces you again; he still looks pretty peeved, but his mood seems more… controlled. 

He focuses on you. There’s a seriousness to his expression that he lacked before: it’s the sort of, “I’m not fucking around” look people get when they aren’t fucking around. “Who are you?” he asks.

If he wants to play grown-up, then he’s in for a bad time.

“I thought you already knew? ‘The Dark Rider,’ remember?”

This time, he doesn’t take the bait. “What do you do for a living?”

You take a moment to think. “Private asset relocation.”

“Would you say you’re a good influence on other people?”

Did he write these questions on a notecard? “You tell me.”

He sneers. “What are you doing with White Diamond?”

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Steven Universe can count the number of times on his hand that he’s ever had to use the word “flabbergasted,” and today, that number has gone up by one. There’s really no other way to describe the look on this asshole’s face.

Thinking back, he should have opened with that question. It would have saved him from the growing headache he’s got, but he had wanted to get a feel for this “Dark Rider,” before he fully played his hand. Connie hadn’t agreed with it, but he thought it a more tactful way of handling things. 

At the time.

Stars, he should have let her come. She’s got a way of cutting to the chase; a kind of direct tact that Steven lacks. Where she can swing a sword and strike the heart of the matter at hand, Steven enters with a shield raised, preferring to let others strike at him while he uses their movements to find an opening to exploit. It’s a fine strategy, except for the cases where his opponent ignores his shield and sweeps his feet out from under him. In all honesty, he had thought he was beaten. He was ready to ignore the biker and go talk to White himself, thinking anything else was becoming a waste of time. He asked the last question as an afterthought. The reaction he got was far more than he expected, given that he wasn’t expecting one at all. Lying flat on his ass and without any trick up his sleeve, Steven had gotten exactly what he needed without even trying to take it. 

“Well?” he said. “You’ve been together all summer. What are you doing with her?”

The biker puts their hands in their pockets and leans back, eyeing Steven but not speaking. They look between him and the forested path he blocks and Steven almost hopes they’ll try to make a run for it. Instead, the “Dark Rider” focuses on him and nods to themself. From the look they’ve got, Steven has won their little game and it’s finally time for some real answers. At least, he hopes so.

“I’ll tell you what, kid. You just wait here, I’ll grab Hollywood--”

“Who?” Steven interrupts.

“Who do you think? I’ll get her, you stay here, and when I come back, we’ll all sit in a circle, drink some tea, and talk this shit out. Sound good?”

Steven’s face hardens as he studies the biker’s own. 

They  _ really _ don’t look like the kind of person he should trust, but his lack of faith in their word is outweighed by his desire to get this mess cleared up and dealt with. He sighs, trying to keep the sound from being too apparent, and steps to the side, leaving the trail clear.

“Fine. But you’ve got ten minutes before I go up there and figure this out myself.”

“Alright tough guy, pump the brakes.” The biker holds up their hands in an imitation of defense as they pass him. “I’ll be right back.” They pull their phone out of a pocket and start up a timer, putting it in front of Steven’s face. “Ten more minutes and this’ll all make sense.”

“Ten minutes,” he confirms.

“Ten minutes.” A pair of finger guns are the last things Steven sees of the biker before they’ve rounded a tree and passed out of sight.

When he’s sure they’re out of earshot, he groans into his hand and slumps against a nearby boulder. 

Why couldn’t White have met someone normal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere apologies to any teenagers who read this and had their immersion broken. Sincere-er apologies to Steven Universe, who interacted with Reader once and is already tired of the bastard.  
> I'm pretty sure this chapters puts us over the 45,000 word mark, which means this story is, by technicality, a novel.  
> Actually, I just checked, and apparently the minimum-minimum is 40,000, and the "real" minimum is 50,000, but hitting that shouldn't take much longer, so I'm gonna go ahead and celebrate now.


	18. Near the Edge

Yeah, sure, “ten more minutes.” Ten more minutes until you and White are out of here and halfway down the interstate. Dumb-ass kid.

You kick a rock along the trail, keeping it in front of you as you walk. Loathe as you are to admit it, that tween knowing White Diamond by name has you a bit skeeved. Like… is he paparazzi? An obsessed fan? An acolyte of whatever cult she may or may not have crawled out of? Back when the two of you met, you had searched White’s name on the internet. Unsurprisingly, you didn’t get many relevant results. Adding tags like “actress” or “celebrity” didn’t do much except show you discontinued jewelry brands. In that week-or-so where you almost lost your mind thinking she was some kind of freak-of-nature you even went as far as tossing in “cryptid” and “monster,” getting absolutely nothing in return. Though, “white diamond human” didn’t show much either. That means the kid is either a _very_ dedicated fan for someone who’s done shit-all to deserve it, or…

He _knows_ her. 

The next kick sends the rock flying up into the branch of a tree, rattling it hard enough for the bird perched there to squawk in alarm and then, you assume, anger. 

How did he even know the two of you were here? What was with the whole intervention shit? Teenagers are supposed to _like_ breaking the rules, and busting ATMs might as well be “Baby’s First Federal Offence.” It doesn’t even count. The kid’s a prick anyway; if White doesn’t already know he’s here, you’d prefer to keep it that way.

At least it’s cooler in here than it was back there. Still too hot for your liking. You close up the front of your jacket to cover most of the sweat stains and hope that it masks the worst of the smell. Today has been a lesson in the consequences of using cheap deodorant.

Every corner you round and tree you pass could have White hiding behind it, but she’s nowhere to be found. Before you let yourself get worried, you check the timer on your phone.

7:54

7:53

7:52

You’ve barely started looking and you’ve got plenty of time to find her. Still, every once in a while, you look over your shoulder, just to make sure that tween isn’t following you. That’s… assuming you _could_ tell if he is. That motherfucker is fast. Or he has a twin. You’re not sure which is worse.

The trail takes a sharp turn to the left and a bloom of sunlight shines through a gap at the edge of the trees. There are only a few hundred feet between you and the end of the forest, but the closer you get, the slower you begin to walk. 

You can hear something.

It’s faint, very quiet, yet unmistakable in both what it is, and who is responsible for it.

It’s White.

She’s singing.

You stop, unable to make out any words. Even still, you can tell what kind of song this is, and it isn't a happy one. The notes are long and her voice soft; when it rises above a whisper it seems ready to crack, yet White never falters. 

You continue forward, carefully, so as to not make a sound. Avoiding all the sticks and dried leaves that litter the path becomes close to impossible and by the time you’re within speaking distance of her, you’re using the most stable looking rocks in the ground as stepping stones, stretching your legs to their limits due the distances between some of them.

You can see her now, even through the slight obfuscation of the trees. She’s sitting near a cliff’s edge-- this one off the trail and without any railing --that overlooks a winding river that cuts through a valley leading to the park section the two of you came from. 

White is close enough to be heard properly, and hear her properly is what you try to do. The mental effort it takes to balance on the jagged rock you decided to stand on means that you do not succeed. Her song reaches some sort of crescendo, though it would still be considered quiet compared to almost any other piece of music. Just when it seems you’re ready to make out the words, your footing fails and a heavy boot crashes against the ground, shattering the branch it falls on. Really, it wasn’t that loud. But right now? It sounds like a bomb went off.

White’s final note is clipped short. Her head flicks towards you, but she catches herself and looks away, then runs her hands along her thighs, flattening the folds in her dress. “I didn’t hear you coming,” she says, quietly.

You rub a hand against the back of your head. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” you say, knowing that you are.

“No, no. I think I’d appreciate the company.” She holds a hand out to her side, gesturing to the ground.

Wordlessly, you accept the invitation. You seat yourself not even two feet away. You don’t realize how close you are until she looks down at you. With anyone else, their proximity could be felt by any number of things. The scent of perfume. The warmth of their bodies. The sound of their breath. Yet, with White, the only reason you know she’s there is because you’re looking at her now. A woman such as her seems the type to wear perfumes that clogs every sense, but you know her better than that and smell nothing. The only heat you feel is from the sun. Any human should _breathe_. 

She’s still looking at you. You scoot a few feet away and re-situate yourself. When you look back, White is, once more, looking over the valley. You want to apologize but the words never leave your throat.

White speaks first. “I came here to understand. Many things. There were many things I hoped to learn. There still are. More than before, if you can believe it.” From the side of her face, you can see she’s smiling. “Isn’t that silly? I think it’s silly. I wanted to learn, but now I fear I’ll never understand. So many little things that make so little sense. Plenty of big ones that make even less.” She sighs. “So many ‘what’s?’ and ‘how’s?’” Her expression drops. “Why.” She throws her hands out through the air and continues. “I look on this world and try to understand why. What of it could inspire her to do all she did? What did she see here that nowhere else had? I cannot find it. I cannot see what she did. I try, but I cannot. I don’t understand.”

You’ve got a pretty good idea of who she’s talking about. Right now doesn’t seem like the best time for humor, but the words come out before you can stop them. “Maybe she really liked the rocks.” Internally, you cringe. When White looks at you, all you can offer is a sheepish smile and the hopes that she won’t break down right now.

She’s… laughing? She’s smiling again, her shoulders are shaking, and you don’t see any tears, so…

That’s definitely laughter. You can’t tell if she’s laughing with you or at you, but you let yourself join in regardless. The sound of yours next to her own is closer to a sputtering engine and a silver bell than two people sharing a joke. Still, you’d take it over making her cry.

Her laughter fades and you cut yours off in response. White puts one hand behind herself then rests the other on her hip and leans back, almost lounging. The sun catches in her hair, casting her head in a halo of gilded light. Several rays scatter in the stone on her forehead and you could swear you almost see the rainbow within. Looking as she does, White Diamond seems closer to a god than a mortal woman. 

You feel small under her gaze, yet it has nothing to do with the literal difference in size or the unnerve you may have felt when you knew her less.

“You can be so funny,” White says. She still looks sad.

You shrug. “Well. I try.” 

Neither of you speak, instead, looking back at the view. White’s words taint the image somewhat and you struggle to understand what it is she meant. _Anyone_ should be able to look at this and feel _something_. Unless she does, but she thinks she’s feeling the wrong thing. But she’d never know the right one. It’s not exactly easy to get into the mind of a dead person.

“Maybe…” you say, “instead of trying to see what she did, you should… try to see it yourself.”

“I’m looking right at it.” 

“I mean… You might not understand why she felt the way she did. You might not ever. If she’s gone,” White’s shoulders tense up and you slow your speaking, “then there’s nothing that can change that. But you can still look at all this and understand how _you_ feel. Then you can… I dunno… Apply that?”

White brings her palm up from the ground and flicks a blade of grass off. “I think I feel dirty.” The two of you chuckle, and you shrug again.

“There’s gotta be something, right? Something you care enough about to…” you roll your hand, realizing you don’t actually know the “what?” to this whole scenario.

“To die for?” White says, bluntly.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

Oh, _fuck_. 

It’s not like the thought hasn’t crossed your mind. The way she talked about Rose, or, once you realized that the person she was talking about was Rose, made it obvious that something had happened, but… 

You didn’t think she was talking about that right _now_ . You never thought the whole reason she was on this trip was because of _that_. 

You look at her, slack-jawed, and sputter out, “Christ, Dee, I didn’t-- I thought that-- God, if I had known--”

“No, I’m sorry. You were only trying to help.” She looks down. For a time, neither of you say anything. “You see something in this, don’t you?” She sweeps a hand across the view. “It inspires something in you, doesn’t it?”

“I mean… I guess.” You’re not sure if you should tell the truth or if there’s something else she needs to hear. “It’s pretty. Really, it’s beautiful. Seeing it, places like this, I mean… it’s like a part of me that’s missing when I’m not there, y’know?” She wouldn’t, you realize, given that she just said she doesn’t. “I don’t know. If you’re asking me if I get my life’s purpose or something from pretty landscapes, then no. It’s just something on the road to look forward to.”

“Is there something that does?” White asks. You’re used to not recognizing the expressions she can wear, but this is something else entirely. You know exactly what paints her features, but it’s not something you ever expected to see on her. She almost looks scared.

“What do you mean?”

“Is there something that gives you purpose? A reason to carry on?”

There should be, shouldn’t there? An obvious answer that springs to mind the moment you’re asked the question? Anyone should be able to answer that question. Everyone does something; everyone has a _reason_. So why can’t you think of one?

White looks at you, expectations clear in her eyes. She needs to hear something. Give her something!

“Well, I’ve got to get you home, don’t I?”

She smiles again. It doesn’t last very long. “You weren’t always taking me to Beach City, unless humans live for even less time than I remember.”

You give a dry, breathy chuckle. “I had… other stuff going on.” Things like bar hopping, motel crashing, and… most of what you’re still doing. Just... with less company. “It wasn’t as important.”

“I’m pleased to know you think so highly of me.” Her posture relaxes, and the distance between the two of you lessens. 

“Kinda hard not to, since, y’know.” You raise a hand between the tops of your heads, illustrating the difference in height.

Again, both of you laugh. 

The mirth dies down and a quiet settles over you both. White looks into your eyes and you hope the smile you return is as reassuring as it’s meant to be. “Thank you,” she says. “You’ve been very kind to me, and I’ve learned so much from you. It will be a sad day when we part ways.”

When?

…

Right.

The “ticking time bomb” nature of the trip returns to the forefront of your mind, kinda like the ticking time clock you’ve got in your pocket. You pull your phone out and check the timer.

0:42

0:41

0:40

“What is it?” White asks.

Unless that twerp set a clock of his own, then he won’t have a very accurate way of guessing when ten minutes have passed, which should mean you’ll have plenty of time to get out of here. Or, he’ll come early and find the two of you on the way down. He might already be on his way up.

Motherfucker.

“Just checking the time.” 

“Is there any reason why?”

“Summer’s not gonna last forever, is it?” You stand. “Come on, we’ve got to make the most out of it.” You offer White your hand and she takes it, gently closing her fingers around your own. The two of you pretend you’re helping her to stand, and she brushes off her clothes a final time. 

“Then what do you suggest?”

“We can start by getting out of here. Kinda bored of the mountains. After that…” You return to the trail and start the walk down into the valley, White Diamond beside you. “I guess we’ll just have to see what’s out there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if anyone actually cares, but I think Behind-the-Scenes stuff is cool, so I'm going to share the closest thing I have to it with this.  
> I ended up doing some pretty big reshuffling of some plot points in for the second half of the story while I was writing this chapter, which is why it took so long compared to the other Yellowrock ones. I just realized I can't say *what* those changes are, since that would spoil them, but there's a plot point I've strung out for too long and I've gotten sick of writing around it and you can probably already guess what it is. So that's gonna get taken care of pretty soon. At least, as soon as that chapter gets out. Which probably won't be very soon. Perks of being a slow writer ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> I've also got the ReaderxPearl fic outlined, and that one is a hell of a lot more streamlined in its story, so that might be something I actually finish within the time frame it was meant to be written. I was supposed to be finished with this one by the time summer was over. Whoops.


	19. Of Problems and Paninis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh... DILF alert?

It’s strange, being back in this place he used to call home. Things seem much the same in all the ways that don’t really matter. The furniture is the same. It’s in the same places. The walls are the same. Older now, more storied. But the same. What’s different, _really_ different, in the ways that do matter, is something deeper. Something not entirely physical, and something not entirely real.

It’s not something you can see, or touch, or even understand unless you know it yourself. It is the sound of a door creaking in ways you don’t remember. The sight of marks on the floor whose cause you cannot name. Voices who speak as if you aren’t always there.

That is what keeps him away. That feeling. Being an intruder in your own home. Or, what was your home. He doesn’t have one now. Not yet, he’d often tell himself. Soon, perhaps. Maybe later. But not yet.

“So, what brings back ‘round these parts, kiddo?” This was not the first time Steven had seen his father since leaving on his trip with no end. This was, however, since then, the first time they had been together in that house on the beach. Hardly an event worthy of true celebration, but lunch, at least, seemed fitting. So, Steven was at the island, and Greg, the stove.

“Would you believe me if I told you I missed your cooking?”

“No.”

“What about your advice?” If there’s worry in his heart, he holds it there, keeping it far from his voice.

“I might have a bit of trouble there, what with you being all ‘teenage independence’ now,” Greg caps the sentence off with a quiet chuckle.

“Dad.”

What remains of the smile falls from his face. “Oh, Steven, you know I’m just kidding around, anything you need-”

“It’s about White Diamond.

Greg purses his lips and nods, his eyes wider. “It’s not that I’m not willing to give her a stern talking-to, but are you sure this isn’t something the Gems could help you with more?”

“It’s about a _human_ with White Diamond.”

Greg nods. “Is the human you?”

“No.”

“Connie?”

“No.”

“Did Andy say something?”

Steven shakes his head and holds up a hand. “It’s… I don’t know their name. I don’t know a lot about them. Except that they’re a jerk.”

Greg turns the heat of the stove down, then rests his elbow on the island and his chin on his hand.

“I don’t know why White would stick around with them for so long. Unless she got kidnapped. But there’s no way someone could just _kidnap_ a Diamond. Unless she got tricked and doesn’t know she got kidnapped.”

“I think I need a bit of context, Schtu-ball.”

Steven ignores the faint flash of irritation that comes from hearing his old nickname and grumbles at the effort it takes to fully recollect everything he knows. “White decided she wanted to ‘tour the Earth.’ She never said why, just that she wanted to go alone. Yellow and Blue weren’t happy about that, and Spinel got caught trying to go with her _three times_ . The only reason I know is because White kept calling me every time she wanted to show me something or when she had a question. She had a _lot_ of questions, dad.”

“This is getting to something about a human, right?”

“Right, right. So I tell her to only call me if it’s an emergency. After that? Nothing. I don’t hear anything for two weeks. But I don’t hear anything from _her_ , I get an update from _Ronaldo_. People on his blog started posting pictures of ‘an enigma’ near the Great Northern border. Then, ‘Enigma’ starts showing up with someone else. Some biker they call,” his jaw clenches and he speaks through his teeth, “the Dark Rider.”

“Wow.”

“Right? So now White’s traveling with them in a motorcycle she doesn’t even fit in and… they’re just…”

“Just?”

Steven sighs. “I showed Connie the pictures. You can… Here, just look.”

Greg takes Steven’s phone and begins swiping through the collection of images. Steven watches his expression never change beyond a look of concerned interest. “Steven, I don’t want to say that you’re overreacting, but-” Steven reaches over the phone and swipes to the next picture. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“That… looks illegal.”

“In four different ways. Connie checked.”

Greg returns the phone and folds his hands together. Steven waits for him to speak, and it’s only when he’s about to say something that Greg finally does. “You know you don’t have to help her, right?”

“I know.”

“She’s a fully grown space queen who’s free to make her own decisions. Even if those decisions are mistakes.”

“And what if they’re illegal? I don’t think there are any courtrooms that she’d fit in.”

“She fit in that sidecar.”

“Barely,” Steven says, letting himself grin.

“If what she’s doing is wrong, then you have other ways of dealing with it. You were on space trial once, right? Take her to space court. Heck, I’m sure Mrs. Maheswaran would love a chance to set her straight. She’d be great at it.”

“It’s just… I don’t think White _knows_ she’s making a bad decision. I don’t even think she’s done anything wrong. She barely knows anything about Earth. She barely knew anything about Gems before I showed up, and she was in charge of them. I spent _so_ long and tried _so_ hard to make things better, and now it’s like I’m gonna watch it all fall apart because of some douchebag in leather.”

“Language, kiddo.”

“Sorry, but you’d call them that to if you ever met them.”

“I guess hashing things out with ‘the Dark Rider’ didn’t end too well?”

Steven only shakes his head. 

“Have you tried talking to White?”

He shrugs. “I was going to. I don’t know. I watched them leave. I could have followed them. I guess I needed some time to cool off.”

“I’m glad you’re putting yourself first, Steven.” Greg reaches across the counter and ruffles Steven’s hair, an action that Steven only puts on a show of trying to resist.

After Greg returns to the stove, Steven looks at an image on his phone, one of White and the biker talking to one another in a restaurant. “She wanted to learn about Earth. Maybe I should let her do it the hard way. It’s not even my problem,” he says into his hand.

Greg smiles, his growing age becoming all too apparent in the creases around his eyes. “It usually isn’t. But I’ll say this: If you’re really worried about White, then talk to White. Tell her how you feel, and if she listens, she listens, and you don’t have to worry about her anymore. And if she doesn’t? It’s not your problem to fix. The only things you need to worry about are you,” he turns around and slides the contents of the pan onto a large plate, “and these paninis, because my pants don’t get any wider.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Steven. I'm sure you'll decide your own mental well-being is more important than fussing over someone else's problems that may-or-may-not actually exist. When has he ever put others before himself to his own detriment?  
> Next chapter is going to be a big one; if not in length, then plot-relevance. No idea when it's going out, so I guess I'll have to keep you all in suspense.
> 
> I'm not sure if there's an "etiquette" around giving unsolicited shout-outs to other people's fics, but if you want another SU story about a bad-mouthed punk dealing with a Gem in their everyday lives, then I've got to recommend FailedALIAS's Pink Spirals. It's not a self-insert story and it deals with some pretty dark themes, but it's undoubtedly the funniest and one of the most heartfelt stories I've read on this site.  
> If you want some Good content with White Diamond in the focus, then I've got to recommend C4S10's White Rainbows. It's a post-Future exploration of White's character and is one of those stories that I pretty much consider canon.  
> I've got a whole lot more I could mention, but I don't want the notes to be longer than the actual chapter.


	20. Winnheximagoranormus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things happen as stuff occurs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm BACK

Blinding fluorescent lighting…

Warped linoleum floors…

Grease stains on every surface that they shouldn’t be…

It’s everything you’d expect from a rundown road-side gas station, and you might as well be home. 

The slushie machine clicks and whirrs in protest of its basic functions. You have to smack its side to get anything to come out and the drink does so in thick, icy clumps. Despite you picking the largest cup available, the machine fills it almost to the brink of overflowing. It whirrs again and you think you hear something break inside when a final dollop of slushie falls out, spilling over the sides of the cup and splattering everything in a nearby radius. Unfortunately, that includes you. Infuriatingly, that includes your jacket. 

You mutter a string of expletives incomprehensible even to yourself. A fistful of napkins removes any trace of the sugary drink and you know it won’t stain, but, still. This thing’s leather. It’s a matter of respect. You finish by wiping off the sides of the cup then toss the napkins into a nearby trash can. Some of them even make it inside. 

It doesn’t look like there are any lids left that would fit this cup. Even if there were… 

A spoon will have to do.

Even more leaks over the sides when you pick it up, staining your hands with the almost neon red of the syrup. You round the corner the slushie machine was hidden behind, and the first thing White sees is you licking your fingers clean and wiping them off on your jeans.

That is not the face of a proud woman.

She stands near the checkout, holding two DVDs taken from a small selection beneath the counter. The attendant on the other side is stammering out some kind of description of the films that White seems to have stopped paying attention to; she only returns her focus after you get close enough to lean on the counter, next to her.

“W-well, that one’s a romantic comedy, it’s, uh… It’s really nice! I wouldn’t even bother with the other one!” Her face is as red as your slushie, and it looks as if she’s ready to smack the second case right out of White’s hands.

“I really can’t see much of a difference,” White says.

“What, a lady’s not allowed to make her own choices?” you butt in, then crane your neck to see what White holds.

The first DVD case is titled  _ When With Witches _ and shows a rugged-looking driver in front of an old muscle car next to a tall, pale woman in a raggedy black dress. That doesn’t look like much of a love story, but, y’know, judging covers and all that.

The other one, though. You’re not  _ judging _ it, but it doesn’t take a genius to guess what  _ Big Beefy Bears: Bound to My Will XXX-treme Cut _ is all about. 

Somehow, the attendant looks even more embarrassed when she sees that you’ve noticed it too. You look at White. “I didn’t know you were into that.”

“Into what?”

With your clean hand, you reach up and pat her on the shoulder, then take the DVD and put it back on the shelf. “This might be something you have to figure out on your own.”

She looks confused but offers no protest.

Amusing as that was, there’s something more important at hand. “How much for this?” you ask the attendant through a mouthful of smoothie while pointing to the rest of it.

“It’s free. On the house! Take it, keep the movie too, just…!” she scrambles around the counter and shoos the two of you out of the store then flips the “Open” sign beside the door to “Closed.” 

Past the parking lot and gas pumps behind you, vehicles speed along the open road. Each car drowns out all other sounds as it passes, and White waits for a lull in the traffic before holding up the DVD and asking, “Should we leave this here?” 

You hold out your hand and she gives it to you. The first-- and most positive --of the reviews on the back states, “Certainly[…] a movie[…] that features[…] romance.”

“Nah. The motel is only half an hour away, and we’ve got three hours of daylight to kill.” Right then, you decide that, “Gas station movies are an essential part of the road trip experience. It’ll be great.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Everything here seems old. The carpet is a patchwork of a century's worth of different designs, the guy at the front had more grey hairs in his nose than years he’d probably been alive (which, if you had to guess, is a lot), and the lights here look like they’re still hooked up to gas-lines. But that’s hardly enough to make you complain. 

“Only fifteen dollars a night.”

“Is that good?” White crouches down to avoid hitting a plastic chandelier.

“Even better. It’s cheap.”

“Mhmm.” 

Reaching the door, you put the brass key in its slot and rattle the handle until everything comes loose. Inside is a dimly lit room with two musty beds, a mustier carpet, a television stand (with the television included), and, officially, no roaches. Exactly what you paid for. 

After tossing your bag down at the foot of your bed, the television is the first thing to grab your attention; everything before is enough to make one with a wooden casing and three antennas seem new. 

Still, maybe not new enough.

Five minutes later, a dozen different conversion cables are tangled behind it, all connected in a single strand to a run-down DVD player. The color on the screen is faded and the speakers are almost blown out, but it’s all you’ve got right now. One of these days you’ll have to get a laptop that can play those things.

You and White both settle in on the floor in front of each of your beds. The blinds are closed and the lights off; something done for convenience in normal circumstances, but necessity here. You finish your slushie and set the empty cup to your side. 

The movie begins and the opening credits roll.

_ ‘PRESENTED BY THE UNITED FILMS CORP.’ _

The speakers warble and crackle under the strain of the logo’s trumpeting fanfare.

_ ‘STARRING TEX TIBERIUS AND EVA SCOTTS IN…’ _

“Hey, Dee, you’ve got to, uh, turn that down,” you say, pointing at the glare on the screen.

“Oh, yes, of course.” She closes her eyes and the light emanating from her body slowly dims out. She smiles in apology and turns back to the screen. 

You… really need to ask her about that.

‘ _ WHEN WITH WITCHES’ _

Then again, it can wait for after the movie.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


_ A pale woman in a black dress stands alone on the side of the road, watching as dozens of cars pass by. A heavily customized muscle car screeches to a halt in front of her, kicking up a large cloud of dust that’s blown away by a wave of the woman’s hand. The car’s window rolls down and a jacketed figure leans out on their elbow. “Who are you?” they ask in a voice as husky as their appearance is rugged. _

_ “I’m a magical witch who’s escaped from my world to learn about your own.” _

_ “That sounds reasonable. What’s your name?” _

_ “Winnheximagoranormus, Witch-Lord of the Northern Winds. Winnie, for short.” _

_ “Nice. You can call me… The Driver.” A flash of light appears on the corner of their sunglasses as they look towards the horizon and the setting sun. _

_ “How roguishly attractive.” _

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


_ “I’m afraid I haven’t been very honest with you, The Driver.” Winnie folds her hands in her lap as they speed down an open highway. Several figures on flying broomsticks race next to them, hurling bolts of light and general insults towards the car and its passengers. “I escaped from my world, but I didn’t come alone! My old coven has followed me and will do anything to ensure that I return.” _

_ “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” The Driver growls. _

_ “I guess I forgot.” _

_ The Driver chuckles and pushes their sunglasses up the bridge of their nose. “These witches won’t know what hit them.” _

It was the car. 

They got hit by the car.

It showed more blood than you were expecting.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


_ The Driver leans against a counter in the lobby of a high end hotel looking into the hidden eyes of their reflection in a gold-rimmed mirror. “...so if I’m always with myself, am I ever really alone?” _

_ “Two beds, then?” the lobby attendant asks. _

_ “...Yeah.” The Driver never looks away from themself. _

“They remind me of you,” White says, pointing to the screen.

“I don’t see it.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


_ “The spell has caused most of your blood to leak out of your finger tips!” Winnie says as she holds The Driver in her arms.  _

_ “I... noticed...” _

_ “Don’t worry, I can heal you with my magic tears!” _

_ “Why didn’t you do that… when I got… shot?” _

_ “It must have slipped my mind. Just like how I slip off my broom. Ha!” The Driver passes out from blood loss. “Oh no!” _

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


_ “But you musn’t come to the Witch’s World; Earth has everything you need!” Winnie throws her head back and shields her face with her arm as she holds back a sob. _

_ “No…” The Driver says, their gaze cast to the ground. “The Earth doesn’t have…” They remove their sunglasses and look Winnie in the eyes. “You!” _

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


_ The credits roll and the music fades. The film cuts to the body of the coven leader and zooms in on her eyes. They snap open, and over a shot of blackness, her voice is heard saying, “I’ll be back!” _

An internet search of the movie’s box office shows that this was not the case.

You close your laptop and stand. That was not a good position to sit in for two hours. The television set lacks any remotes, so you have to turn it off with a knob on the front face. The last thing you see on the screen is a small white dot that slowly fades into the surrounding blackness.

“So. What’d you think?”

“I’ll need some time to properly understand it, I think.”

“It was fucking shit, right?”

“I liked the robot one more.”

You nod, flop down onto your bed, and heavily exhale. A shower sounds good right now. Real good.

White draws the corner of a curtain back with her finger and peaks out the window. The sun is setting and a ray of light lands on your chest.

“We passed a park on the way here,” she says. “I’ll be taking the evening to explore it. I don’t expect to find anything, but…” 

You get up onto your elbows and nod. “Is this something you want to do alone?”

“I would prefer to, yes.”

“Alright.” 

She walks the length of the room in only a few steps and ducks as she passes through the door. Before she can close it, you say, “Hey, avoid shady women in pointy hats, okay? I don’t think I have enough napkins to deal with that much blood.”

White Diamond holds the back of her hand beneath her chin and laughs. “I don’t have any blood.”

The door clicks shut, locking behind her.

You stare at where she used to be.

“What?”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


So that was a joke, right? She’s been back for an hour and hasn’t said anything about it. That means it was a joke, right? Humans need blood.  _ She’d  _ need blood. She’s really pale, sure, but that doesn’t come from “no blood.” Pale blood? Maybe she’s Irish? A vampire? Both seem about as likely as the other. 

She glows. Maybe you misheard her, and she said “glow blood.” Every time she’s been glowing, she’s just been blushing. Right? That fits.

How’d she get glowing blood?

Mad doctor, maybe.

Unless…

A witch? 

Maybe she’s one, and glowing blood is something all the legends just forgot to get written down. Or she got cursed by one. She was  _ drawn _ to the DVD. It’s all connected.

So why’d she pick up the porno?

Fuck that, you won’t judge. 

You might judge the glowing, though. And the self-proclaimed lack of blood. 

Everything else makes sense. Kind of. You can write it off with a bit of explanation. Not that they’re things that need to be written off, of course, you’re just trying to understand White without being nosey. When you look at her through the lens of being a very eccentric person with a very confusing and more-and-more tragic backstory, a lot of things make sense.

Except for the glowing.

Are the LEDs under her skin?

Is it actual, honest to God bioluminescence in a human being?

Is she even a---?

“Helmet, are you listening?” White Diamond sits on her bed across from you. She’s cross-legged and holding her hands in her lap, while you rest on yours and leave your feet to hang over the edge of the bed. The gears in your head resume turning, and what she just said to you finally registers.

Helmet?

“...Helmet?”

She blinks. “Oh, you don’t get it? I did some thinking while I was gone, and, well, since you always come up with such funny names for me, I decided that it was only fair I do the same for you. Since you’re always wearing that little thing, it’s only fitting I call you by it as well.”

“...Yeah, but, you wear one too.”

“Not voluntarily.”

Fair enough. It’s a miracle that thing hasn’t broken her neck. Unless it can’t be broken. Because she doesn’t have any bones...

“What happened to ‘Navigator?’ That one was cool.”

“You’ve several for me, I can call you by both.”

“We’ll… workshop it. What were you… you said something before?”

“Yes, of course. I have wonderful news!” She claps her hands together and smiles, her head tilted to the side. Her eyes remain just as open and focused on you as they were before. With someone else, it might look creepy. With White it’s... kinda cute, actually.

You decide to focus on that, rather than the possibility of her not having any bones, which is not cute.

How would that even work?

You shake your head clear and ask, “Are you gonna share the news, or…?”

“I admit, I wanted to keep you in suspense. Very well. You’ve asked me several times about my family, Steven especially.” 

If once or twice counts as “several,” sure. You let her continue.

“As I was walking through the park, I received a call from him. This is not a common occurrence; you can imagine my surprise.”

You nod. “What’d he call about?”

Her eyes light up-- not literally, in this case --and she says, “He’d like to meet you!”

Wait, what?

“What?”

“Isn’t it exciting? Oh, there’s so much the two of you could learn from each other. You could teach him that trick you do to fix those machines with too much money in them,”

“I don’t think that’s a good--”

“He could show you proper manners,”

“Hey--”

“And it would be so good for him to have another human--”

“Let’s pump the breaks a bit, yeah? I don’t mean to interrupt, but what’s… What are the logistics here?”

“What do you mean?”

“We need a ‘when,’ for starters. A ‘where,’ too.”

“He said tomorrow, and that he’d come to us.”

“Okay. That’s cool.” A little fucking ominous, but, whatever. “Also, to confirm: why? And, how?”

“He’d like to meet you,” White says again, as if that’s a good thing. “He seemed nervous about asking, but I think he’s just excited.”

“Okay… How?”

“As I said, he called and--”

“No, no that’s not… How does he know?”

“Know what?”

“About me? How does he know about me?” 

Each of you stares at the other, neither saying a word. You raise an eyebrow and she purses her lips. You keep staring and she looks down in thought. 

“Did you ever call him and say anything?” you ask.

“Well… no. We hadn’t spoken before this in some time.”

“And he just… called out of nowhere and wanted to meet me?”

“When you put it that way it does seem a little strange.”

“Is there any reason you can think of?” Because you can think of one, and you don’t fucking like it.

“No, there isn’t.”

If he didn’t learn anything from her, then that only leaves one person he could have gotten something out of.

The only time you could have given something up was back in…

…

That little fucking twerp.

“So he… wants to meet me? As in, we haven’t met before?”

“He didn’t say anything like that. Have you?”

“No,” you lie.

A beat of silence passes between the two of you, short enough to not warrant mentioning aloud, but too long to go unnoticed. “I suppose we’ll have to ask him about it when he arrives,” she says.

“Guess so.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


You didn’t sleep much that night. When you weren’t staring at the ceiling, moon, or the inside of your eyelids, you were watching White as she sat cross-legged in the middle of her bed. Not that you were looking simply for the sake of it-- you’d never do (and have never done) that --rather, you were trying to think of a way to move her to your bike and get as far away from here as you could before Steven arrived or White woke up.

Of course, if she’s to be believed, she’s never  _ not _ awake. But that’s assuming she told the truth. Unless it’s the truth to her but she doesn’t realize she’s wrong. Or, she knew she was lying but--

…

You were trying to come up with a way to get White to the bike without her realizing she had been moved.

You didn’t. Obviously. Otherwise you wouldn’t be standing here in some shitty park in some bumfuck town in the middle of nowhere waiting for some punk-ass teenager to come in and ruin a perfectly good overcast day.

It’s not too late to run. You could probably convince White to sit in the sidecar for a bit then just gun it before she realizes what’s happening.

But if Steven found you before…

No point in delaying the inevitable.

You shift on your feet and keep your arms folded. Every bush, rock, and tree feels like a hiding place for that little punk to pop out from. 

“So, uh, about Steven,” you say.

“Yes?” White asks.

“Is he a nice guy? You two get along?”

She doesn’t look at you. “He’s wonderful, truly. Though…” It seems that she’s trying to smile, but her face ends up looking… melancholic. “He’s the reason I’m who I am today, but… we had some rather severe disagreements when we first met. The fault is mine; I won’t subject you to the details. I don’t think either of us have moved on, not fully, at least.” She turns to you and holds your shoulder with little more than the tips of her fingers. The sun is still covered by the clouds, yet the day begins to feel warmer. “I’d prefer if you don’t bring this up around him. He can be sensitive, and I’d like this to be a happy day.”

Well, that’s all a bit more than you were expecting. When you first heard about Steven you didn’t know what to make of him. You had plenty of ideas, but they were nothing more than half-thoughts that disappeared as quickly as they came. When you found out he was her family, your first reaction was one of relief. After that, you thought they had a kind of “eccentric single aunt who shows up every six months to spoil her nephew with too many presents” dynamic going on. Like,  _ really  _ eccentric, but who doesn’t have a family member like that? Now it’s sounding like they just walked out of a drama series that’s gone on for two too many seasons.

She’s serious, though. That’s not the face of a liar. 

You nod. “Alright. Not a word.” The flicker of a smile dances across her lips and she takes her hand from your shoulder and holds it below her chest. The two of you return to looking nowhere, waiting for your guest. 

She might have said whatever disagreement they had was her fault, but with what limited exposure you’ve had to Steven, both in person and from what White has told you, you’ve got a less than stellar opinion of him. She’s said before that he taught her a lot. How much is “a lot?” You’ve known her for a while, and she’s lacking some pretty basic knowledge. How much is he actually teaching her? Who’s to say he’s teaching her the truth? What if their “disagreements” weren’t White’s fault at all and Steven has shifted the blame? Teenagers can be conniving little shits when they want to be; manipulating family is the least of what they’re capable of.

To be fair, you don’t exactly have a comprehensive view of this entire situation. Nuance exists, as much as it might inconvenience you. Still, you’re keeping an eye on that fucker. 

Or, you will be.

Once he gets here.

That should be soon.

You check your phone.

12:14 p.m.

You grind a heel into the grass and watch the passersby and distant cars on the road at the park’s edge. It’s not the most productive thing; there’s no point in watching the people since you already know what Steven looks like and watching the cars is a waste of time since you have no idea what to look for. You could try to reason it as keeping alert being a way to keep your nerves calm, but it doesn’t. Trying to focus on something else just seems worse.

What is it you’re worried about, anyway? You already know he’s a punk. It’s pretty fucking clear he doesn’t like you. First impressions are out of the way and at the end of the day he’s still just a teenager. It’s not like you need  _ his _ approval. Even if he hates your guts, what’s he gonna do about it? Fight you? 

Actually, he seemed kinda close to that already.

There is a greater-than-zero chance you’ll be getting into a physical altercation with a minor this afternoon. You’d win, obviously, but it’s something to keep in mind.

So. You’re worried about something. It has to do with Steven showing up, but it’s not about Steven himself. 

White? It’s between her and the bike, and Steven only knows one of them.

But what about her? What is it about the two of them seeing each other that’s got you so worked up?

Nothing comes to mind, and all that’s left to do is to keep waiting. 

So you do.

A particularly dark cloud passes overhead and is gone by the time you’ve pulled your phone out to check the time.

12:15 p.m.

Wait, seriously?

You groan, louder than intended, and let your head fall back against your shoulders. White looks down at you. “Is something wrong?”

“Just bored.” You move your eyes to the road.

“Would you like to play a game?” Her question seems genuine, but there’s a playfulness to her voice that almost sounds like a taunt. You get the idea that she’s been in situations like this before. 

The prospect of waiting any longer with only yourself as company wins out against your pride. “What kind?” you ask. 

“It’s one of Spinel’s favorites,” a smile appears on White’s face as she speaks, “we call it ‘Imitation.’ The rules are simple. Whoever chooses to go first must pick someone they know and must try to act as if they  _ are _ them. Whoever else is playing must try to guess who it is they’ve chosen to imitate. The first one to guess correctly wins. Since it’s just the two of us, we’ll have to ignore that and go back and forth.”

“Don’t get me wrong, that does sound fun, but…”

“But what?”

“We don’t know any of the same people.”

White’s face falls flat. She holds a hand against her chin and looks down, then her eyebrows push together, creasing the otherwise flawless features of her face. “I suppose there wouldn’t be much of a challenge in trying to guess if we’re imitating each other.”

“It’d be kinda funny, though.”

She flicks a hand in your direction, not bothering to look at you. “There’s hardly a challenge in that, you’re much too predictable.”

“What? Bullshit. I’ve got  _ layers _ to me. I’m unpredictable as hell.”

“Quite the contrary.”

“Prove it.” You move to put your hands on your hips but White has already done that. As you raise a finger and open your mouth to speak, White mimics your actions with a startling degree of accuracy. “That doesn’t count, you’re just copying me!”

“No I’m not.”

“Pretty sure you are.”

“I don’t agree.”

“Alright, new game. Let’s play, ‘I’m Right, and You’re Not.’ I’ll let you guess the rules.”

She taps her chin and looks to the sky in thought, humming to herself. “It does seem rather simple.” She holds a hand against her chest, “I’m right,” she points to you, “and you’re not. I think I like this one.”

Motherfucker.

Mother _ fucker _ .

You  _ want  _ to say something, but nothing comes to mind despite your body’s efforts to put out a retort. In stopping yourself from blabbering out nothing but gibberish, you succeed only in holding your mouth shut as your cheeks heat up and puff out; an accusatory finger held in White’s direction is the closest thing to a comeback that you manage.

“Would you like to play something else?” she asks.

The air in your mouth comes out in a single, petty huff. You turn on your heel and stomp a few feet away, shaking your head. White follows close behind. From the sound of her voice, she’s bent forward and speaking almost at your level. “The Pouting Game, is it? Spinel enjoys this one, too. I think it’s adorable. I like to remind her of that, but it just makes her poutier. Now, that simply won’t do, so I tell her again-- to cheer her up, of course --but that only seems to make things worse. I  _ could _ call you adorable, but I think you’d describe this as another part of your ‘charm,’ yes?”

“Alright! Alright!” You throw your hands up and try to stop her from talking before your face can get any more flushed. “You win! I don’t know what the rules are, but you’ve won. Great game. Real fun game. You did it. We can go back to the quiet waiting now.” 

White stands proud, her hands behind her back and an eyebrow raised. She smirks down at you. “I’ve never lost that one.”

“I wish I’d never played,” you mutter.

“What happened to silence?”

You mutter into your hand and a part of you wishes that Steven would actually show up.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


“You’re sure he didn’t say when he was coming?” You flick the pinecone towards your makeshift two-sticks-stuck-in-the-ground goal post and frown when it fails to meet its target. 

“I’d have told you if he did.” White is crouched down next to your prone body. She follows each pinecone as it arcs through the air, but she shows no reaction towards your repeated failure.

“And you’re certain he said it’d be today?” 

“Yes.”

The closest you come to success is one pinecone knocking a goalpost loose and getting itself lost in the grass. You sigh.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“...something… green.”

“The grass?” you ask.

“No.”

You point at a nearby tree. “Leaves.”

White nods.

“I spy something bl--.”

“The sky.”

“Fuck.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


White sits cross-legged on a fallen log; its surface has been worn smooth by the countless others who have done the same. Her eyes are closed and her face set in a look of focus. Right now, you’ve nothing else to do but wait, and that log looks pretty comfortable, but White typically prefers to be alone when she meditates, so you hover around a dozen feet away, occasionally glancing in her direction. She seems to sense your presence as a single eye opens, already watching you. “Is there something you need?” she asks.

“Oh, uh… Is it alright if I…?” you point at the empty space next to her.

She looks at it for a few seconds longer than you feel comfortable with before she closes the eye and returns to that focused expression. “Only if you’re quiet.”

Easy enough.

You make your way over-- careful to avoid stepping on any hidden sticks --and slowly seat yourself on the log. There isn’t as much space as you had anticipated and you find yourself closer than would be normal; you’re mere inches away from being shoulder-to-shoulder with her. It’d be weird to get up now, so you stay, but the situation… gets to you, and you find yourself unable to look away from White’s face. 

Does she notice?

Does she care?

Is this weird for her?

Are you making it weird by thinking about it too hard?

Can she notice  _ that _ ?

Her eyes open. She’s looking right at you.

Oh God, can she actually read minds?

Your lips part in preparation for you to speak, but she looks away and closes her eyes as quickly as she opened them. Her expression is unchanged.

So… you’re in the clear?

Clear enough.

You relax your shoulders and watch the distant cars drive by. 

Any minute now.

You pull your phone out of your pocket and check the time.

12:27 p.m.

God fucking dammit.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


You’re not  _ technically _ meditating. Actually, this doesn’t fit your understanding of it at all. You’re physically relaxed and your eyes are closed, sure, but half of it’s supposed to be in the “mental calm,” right?

You’re not mentally calm.

You’re not worried anymore, this is more of an agitated anticipation, or annoyed boredom. Ansty expectance? The specifics aren’t important; it’s far from any kind of calm. 

All you’ve been doing is writing a mental checklist of all the maintenance for your bike you’ve been putting off in an effort to distract yourself from more immediate concerns.

You won’t have to worry about gas for a while.

There are some scratches that could use buffing out.

But, they’re all on rusted panels, so you might as well patch those up, too.

If you’re gonna do that, now might be a good time to tighten up the mirrors.

They could stand for some cleaning.

The headlight needs some polishing, it’s getting kinda cloudy.

When was the last time you changed your oil?

That was only a couple weeks ago…

White was there, right?

It’d be a whole lot easier to concentrate if something weren’t poking your shoulder like that.

Who’s talking?

“...fallen asleep? Steven’s here, he’d like to talk to you.”

Is that White?

Wait.

Steven’s here?

You open your eyes.

The sight of the bastard in pink shocks a short cry from you, and you jolt back, lose your balance then fall backwards off the log.

Fuck.

“Oh my.” White offers a hand, looking concerned. You take it, and, with ease, she pulls you back onto the log as you wipe stray strands of grass and a dead leaf off the top of your head. Steven is standing in front of you both. His arms are folded and he holds his face in a passive stare.

You could have gone your whole life without seeing this again.

You stand and fix your jacket. “You must be Steven.”

“Rider.”

“I thought it was ‘the Dark Rider?’”

“I’m not calling you that.” He gives you no time to respond. Now turned to White, he asks, “Hey, can we talk?”

“Of course Steven, what is it?” A smile fails to hide the worry in her eyes.

Steven cocks his head towards a spot under a nearby tree. White follows him towards it, and you follow her, but Steven turns back and says, “This is… family… stuff. Private.”

White asks, “Are you sure they--?”

“Yeah,” he cuts in. “It’s private,” he says to you again.

White looks between the two of you but says nothing.

You shrug and go back to the log. They watch you until you’ve seated yourself and pulled out your phone, after which Steven nods to White and leads her to the tree. They speak quietly, not quite a whisper, but not loud enough for you to hear. What you do make out comes in short snippets and bursts of quickly hushed dialogue. You mindlessly scroll through multiple apps, not paying any attention to what you see. White asks something about Steven “doing better,” and whether or not he’s “enjoying himself,” along with strings of apologies for things she doesn’t explain. In the short glances you spare towards them, Steven only seems to nod along, clearly wanting to bring up something else. He does, and says something about “kidnapping,” and “diplomatic immunity.”

You want to hear what they’re saying more clearly now, if only to understand how in the hell the conversation took that kind of turn.

Whatever he said amuses White and she brushes it off with a short laugh. That does the opposite of amusing Steven and he starts to look a little too agitated for your liking. You raise your voice and ask, “You guys planning lunch or something? You want brunch? It’s a little late for brunch, but I think I know a guy here who can hook you up.”

“This isn’t about you!” Steven says. His voice is almost a shout, but he sounds more annoyed than angry.

“You were just talking about them,” White says.

Steven drags his hand down the length of his face. They walk back over and you stand to meet them. He looks you over, turns to White, then back to you. “Okay,” he says, almost sighing. “I’m going to try this again. Alright?”

You’ve got a pretty good idea of where this is going, and gesture for him to continue.

“What are you doing with White Diamond?”

“Why do you care?”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Why can’t  _ you _ answer a question?”

“Why do you ask so many?”

He throws his hands out to his sides. “I’m trying to figure out what your problem is!”

“Well, you’re doing a real bang-up job of that, huh?”

“You’re making this difficult, not me!”

“This is only happening because of you.”

“ _ I’m _ not the one who--”

“Stars, what is the  _ matter _ with you two?” White says, stepping between you both. “You’ve only just met! What is going on here?” 

Both of you fold your arms and look away. You hold a grimace, but the rising heat in your cheeks betrays the shame you feel from White’s disapproval. 

Steven speaks. “This isn’t the first time we’ve met.”

“You said otherwise when you called me.”

“No, I… I just never brought it up.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause the kid’s a little douche,” you mutter.

Steven points at you, but before he can speak, White holds up a finger and says to you, “If what he said is true, and you’ve given me ample enough reason to believe it is, then you’ve lied to me as well. I’m hearing Steven’s side first, and you will stay quiet until then.”

You turn your head and scoff, side-eyeing Steven, but White is still looking at you. 

That’s not a look you’ve seen on her.

She, uh… she looks kinda pissed.

You swallow, an action almost blocked by the sudden tightness in your throat. A single nod is your only reply and she turns back to Steven, her face softened but still hard. “Now,” she says, “I want this matter settled, and that can only be done with the truth. Explain your behavior.”

“You saw how they act, White. Do I really have to?”

She folds her arms. “Yes.”

That makes you smirk, but White throws a glare over her shoulder and the smug satisfaction disappears as quickly as it came.

Steven holds his eyes shut, clenching a hand at his waist as he mouths out words unheard. “Okay, alright. The whole story. Umm… Alright.”

“Sometime today would be preferable,” White says.

A flush appears on Steven’s cheeks and it starts to look as if someone has spray painted a line of neon pink across his face. 

That is…

Is it just…?

No, he’s definitely glowing.

“I guess it runs in the family,” you say to yourself.

Evidently you didn’t say it quietly enough, because both turn towards you and neither seems happy. White has an eyebrow raised with her mouth held in a flat line and Steven looks like someone set his alarm back by two hours then lit his breakfast on fire. “You aren’t the nicest thing I could be thinking about,” he says.

Silence, you hope, is the prudent response, and you take a step back to let him reflect on all the fun times you’ve shared. He breaths out and the glow fades. His shoulders relax and he turns back to White. “After you stopped calling me, I started hearing that you were travelling with someone. There was a blog--”

What?

“--a bunch of pictures--”

Huh?

“--they didn’t look good.”

Your immediate reaction is to tell him that you look great, actually, but now doesn’t seem like a good time for that. 

“And that was enough to sour things between the two of you?” White asks.

“No, not at all. I didn’t want to get in the way of what you were doing with the ‘independent experience’ thing, but I didn’t trust ‘Dark Rider’ over there enough to leave you alone with them.”

“‘Dark Rider?’ Why do you call them that?”

“I didn’t choose it,” Steven says.

“Well, neither did I!” you say. 

“You agreed to it.”

You throw your arms up. “It sounded cool!”

“Seriously?”

You open your mouth, but have nothing to say. “I mean… at the time…”

White pinches the bridge of her nose. “Stars above, enough of this. Steven, please, finish what you were saying.”

“I didn’t trust them, so I went to talk to the  _ Dark Rider _ ,” the little fucker drenches the word in sarcasm and holds a hand out towards you, “to get a better idea of what was going on.” 

Now he’s just looking at you. White waits for him to continue, but he says nothing.

“Well?” she asks.

“They’re a jerk.”

She sighs. “And you neglected to mention…  _ any _ of this when you called me last? I suppose it just slipped your mind?”

“Did you ignore the part where I said I wanted to talk to you alone?”

“I wasn’t expecting all of this,” she flicks a hand in the general direction of you both.

“And I wasn’t expecting the first person you found to be a walking crime scene.”

“You don’t have proof I’ve done anything wrong.”

“I literally do.”

Fair enough. 

“Then,” White says, “your problem is their criminal record? Need I remind you of your own past?” That should have been accusatory, but White said it like it was some kind of joke between them. Odd timing, but maybe she’s trying to ease the tension.

“You know that was different.”

“Wait, wait, wait. What’s different about what?” you ask.

“I was considered a war criminal from the day I was born up until about three years ago,” Steven says as if it’s something completely normal.

The sheer absurdity of his statement is enough to force a chuckle out of you. “What?”

“It’s all a little embarrassing,” White says. “Shameful, to be more honest. It’s… part of what I didn’t want to talk about.”

“What? I mean, what is? What… what the hell are you guys talking about?”

Steven looks at White, disbelief clear on his face. “You didn’t tell them?”

“Tell me what?”

“It’s not that I  _ chose _ not to, the topic simply never came up.”

“You went on a tour of earth with a human and left out the part where you tried to destroy it?”

Tour of… earth? Like, the whole planet?

Why the fuck did he specify ‘human?’

“I would have told them if they asked…”

“How would they even know to ask about that?”

“What the  _ fuck _ are you talking about?” 

Both snap their heads towards you. White seems like she’s been caught in the headlights, while Steven only says, “Family business, technically.”

“Bullshit.”

White turns around, trying to hide a growing (and glowing) blush that stains her cheeks. 

Steven stares at you. 

He looks tired. 

“White Diamond was the head of an empire that tried to destroy the earth. My mom stopped them. When I was born, they came back and thought I was her. I… it’s a long story, but I stopped them, too. I  _ actually  _ stopped them. Just look,” he gestures at White, who has yet to turn around, “she wanted to hollow out this planet and destroy all sentient life, now she’s going on a road trip here. She’s better. It’s… we’re better.”

Steven puts his hands in his pockets. You look between him and the back of White’s head.

No one speaks.

What the fuck is this kid on?

“Is this a prank?” you ask.

Whatever look of “weary calm” Steven had on before vanishes in a cloud of indignant confusion. “What?”

“Look, I don’t really keep up with foreign politics, but I’m pretty sure I’d remember a plot to hollow out the earth, especially if a twelve-year-old stopped it and someone who looked like  _ her _ was responsible.”

“I’m not twelve!”

“You said it was three years ago.”

“I was fourteen!”

Ignoring what he said, you continue, “And why do you keep saying earth like she came from somewhere else? What? Do you want me to think she’s from the fucking moon? You gonna call her a martian?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Kid, if I’m hearing what you’re saying, then you’re trying to tell me she’s an alien.”

As Steven looks at you, his eyebrows slowly push together and his head tilts to the side. Still facing you, he turns his eyes to White, who has turned herself around. She meets his gaze and her expression mirrors his own. They both look at you. “But… She is an alien.”

You laugh, full-chested and loud. It’s all you  _ can  _ do.

An alien. 

An  _ alien _ . 

White fucking Diamond is supposed to be an extraterrestrial entity? A being… from another planet? 

“Like, the kind that flies around in the little saucer ships and shoots ray guns that turn you into skeletons when you get hit?” You hold your hands up below your face and squint your eyes. “ _ That _ kind of alien? Seriously?”

“Their ships are shaped like body parts.”

He’s a creative kid, you’ll give him that. You laugh again, then continue. “God, y’know, Steven I really thought I had beef with you, but this is… you’re funny. You’re a funny guy, I’ll admit it. We got off on the wrong foot, sure, but so what? That was… this is great. I needed it, honestly.” You reach out to pat him on the shoulder, but he still has the same look on his face. Both of them do. Now, you’re only smiling on the outside. “What?”

“You didn’t know?” he asks.

“Know what?”

“She’s… White, tell them.”

“I thought I already did.”

“Tell me what?” 

“I just said it.”

“Said  _ what _ ?”

“She’s an alien! I’m a--” He cuts himself short and pulls up his shirt. Your heart skips a beat: in place of a belly button is a glimmering pink gemstone the size of your fist. “Just look!”

“What about it?” you ask. “She’s got one too, you’re not special.”

“That’s because we’re aliens! We’re Gems! Alien beings! From another planet!”

“I thought you said it was just White?”

Steven groans and runs a hand through his hair. White guides him back a few feet then speaks. “Steven is a Gem, yes, but he’s also human. His mother, Rose, was a Gem who fell in love with a human, and, well,” she just gestures at Steven. She’s looking at you and smiling, but her eyes… Is that worry? Pity? She’s explaining this like you’re a child.

“No you’re not,” you say, blankly.

She pulls back. “Not what?”

“You’re not a…” It doesn’t need to be said aloud. “You’re… I mean, come on, Hollywood! It’s not like…” 

...It explains everything?

It’s not like it makes perfect sense?

It’s not like you’re blind to have missed it for so long?

Your mouth is dry.

Think about it. Everything you’ve seen. All the things she’s said. What she’s done. What she  _ hasn’t _ . 

When did your chest get so tight?

“Dee, tell him he’s wrong. It’s just a joke! He’s a teenager, they do that, it’s just… It’s just a…”

Her eyes.

“I thought you knew.”

There are diamonds in her eyes.

“No you’re not,” you say. “You’re not! That’s…” White steps back into an opening where the sky is unobstructed by the tops of the trees. “You can’t…”

She closes her eyes and holds her hands out at her waist. Steven moves away from her and closer to you, but before you can ask what’s happening, White begins to glow. It’s unlike anything you’ve seen so far: a jagged, yellow aura surrounds her, crackling like lightning. It begins to grow and… so does she. 

She’s growing.

What is she…?

How…? 

She’s getting taller, twice the height she was before, now she’s passing the trees, it isn’t stopping: she isn’t stopping! 

By the time the energy dissipates, White Diamond is the height of a small building. Steven looks at you, but you only see him as a distant shape in the corner of your eye. White opens her own, and all you can see are diamonds.

The world starts to blur. You try to take a breath, but your lungs let nothing in. Everything is tilting. You can’t breathe. Your legs start to shake. Why can’t you breathe?

You’re falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about damn time that got taken care of. Making Reader an oblivious moron stopped being fun twenty-thousand words ago, but I had the reveal baked so deeply into the original finale that I had no idea how to change it. But, new outline means a new ending, and, in case it wasn't obvious enough, that little movie scene was a self-referential parody of my original script for this story. It's not a complete one-to-one, but the basic gist was:  
> -Reader had a custom muscle car, not a bike  
> -The reason they took White with them was to double-cross her and steal her diamond to pay-off their old debts with the bank-heist they used to run with  
> -While they would be trying to get across the country, Reader and White would have been running other members of the gang who also wanted White's diamond, which is why Reader kept taking her on all those side-trips: they were evasive maneuvers meant to keep them from being tracked whilst keeping White entertained long enough for them to make it across the country  
> -Of course, Reader would have fallen for her over the course of the story and ditched their original plan, but by the time they did that, the old gang boss would have found out about White and the diamond  
> -So, Reader was going to talk the gang down and buy time for White to escape, but it wouldn't have worked, and Reader was going to die in a shoot-out near Beach City  
> Yes, you read that right.  
> -Then we would have found out that White, who "shines with all the colors of the light," also has every gem power, including the ability to revive organics  
> -The gang would have thought Reader was dead and White gone, so no more problems now that Reader is alive again  
> -Happy ending: The End: Fin.  
> I scrapped that whole thing before I even started writing it after I realized the story wouldn't have had any actual stakes (since the whole conflict was based off of a misunderstanding of what White was) and it would have ended with Reader literally getting white-washed.  
> So, I re-wrote it as a low-stakes story completely focused on the romance, but that didn't completely work out, since Reader was supposed to have fallen in love already. And by already, I mean about ten-thousand words ago. Slow-burn, indeed.  
> There's not real reason I'm saying all this, I just thought it might be interesting to some of you.
> 
> For more relevant information, I've got 4 (four) more fics planned. Two of them are the Pearl and Amethyst ones I mentioned before, and the third is a surprise that I'll only announce if I ever actually finish those two. At the rate I'm going, that should be within the next decade. Eat your heart out, GRRM.  
> The fourth is going to be one I'll be writing simultaneously with this one: a Reader/Lilith Clawthorne fic for The Owl House. I'm taking a more hands-on approach to that one, and I'll have each chapter plotted out before I actually start writing it; I want to see if that helps speed things up. That shouldn't take away any time I'd spend on this fic, since I already write a lot of gibberish that never goes anywhere when I'm stuck on this project. Hopefully all that time will be put to better use, now.  
> The Pearl one is technically closer to being ready for writing, but I want to do something else first since it's a sort of psuedo-sequel to this fic that takes place in the same universe but with a different Reader-Insert character, so it would have spoilers for things that haven't happened in this one yet.  
> Whew. Big notes for a big chapter, I guess.


	21. Gem Bullshit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader makes a new casual acquaintance.

Something very large, very soft, and very squeaky slowly pushes against the side of your face. It squishes your nose, then flicks it up and pulls away, carried off by the sounds of childish giggling. “Wow. You weren’t kidding. Out like a log. How long’ve they been like this?”

You don’t recognize the voice.

“A couple minutes. They’re not hurt, and if they were, I already healed them. They’re just asleep, or something.” 

Oh, good. Steven’s still here.

“Well, that doesn’t make for good conversation,” the other voice says, closer now. “Hey!” She shouts into your ear. “Build yourself up, Buttercup! We don’t have all day!”

Is it even worth opening your eyes?

“I don’t know,” Steven says, “I kinda like them better this way. Easier to be around.”

Prick.

You turn your head toward the sound of his voice. “Everything before. The alien shit. That was all just a dream, right?”

“No.”

You sigh.

“Alright pal, naptime’s over.” A hand that feels like it’s the size of your torso scoops you off the ground and drops you onto your feet. Your eyes snap open as you fight to keep your balance; vertigo pulls against you and the black rings that swim across your vision keep sight from assisting you. That same hand falls on your shoulder and keeps you in place even as another pokes you in the chest. “Don’t go passing out on me, buddy. I’ve got some questions for you, y’hear?”

Your eyes clear, and on seeing what stands before you, you wish they hadn’t. 

There’s Steven, obviously.

White’s not here, which might be for the best.

Now, where’d the clown come from?

Her skin, clothes, hair, and eyes are all varying shades of magenta and pink. Black tear marks stain her cheeks and her wild hair is loosely pulled into pig-tails. She’s around a head taller than Steven and has comically large gloves and boots, and an upside down heart-shaped gemstone in the middle of her chest.

“You an alien too?” you ask her.

“You betcha.”

“The fuck do you want?” Tired apathy drowns out any bite that might have had.

“Ha! Aren’t you excited? Well, I just _had_ to meet the one,” she holds her hands out towards you, “the only,” she leans back and throws her arms out, “the…!” Her face scrunches in on itself. She stares at you, even as she leans over and whispers to Steven, “What’d you say the name was?”

“Rider.”

She frowns. “Yeah, that’s not getting any fanfare.”

“I’ve got some other ones if you want to hear them,” he says.

“Eh, maybe another time. Right now I’ve only got one thing on my mind.” She holds up a finger and pushes it into the side of her head. Both squeak. “What are _you_ doing with White Diamond?” Her voice is deeper now, and you have to assume she’s trying to make it sound gruff. 

This shit again?

Steven jabs her in the side with his elbow. She squeaks, and he says, “I already told you why, and I don’t want to deal with that anymore.” 

At least the two of you can agree on something.

The clown girl laughs and says, “Yeah, yeah, I know. I just wanted to see them squirm.” She wiggles her fingers and squints her eyes. In White’s eyes, you would often see nothing but yourself. The longer you knew her, the warmer she became, both in countenance and her behaviors, but in the first days of your travelling together, and the times she would dwell on her past, she was different. The most apparent shift would be in her eyes. They could be cold. Static. A wall, perhaps; hiding harsher thoughts behind them. 

But this one? 

It doesn’t last long, but in her eyes, there is a madness made manifest by the pulsing rings of colors that emanate from her pupils out to the farthest reaches of her sclera. In a human, it would be unexplainable. Not that that would have stopped you from trying, but now, you don’t have to. “Gem bullshit” will suffice. 

Still, an explanation doesn’t sooth the slight feeling of dread the sight instills. 

She notices the look on your face and smirks. “I can tell you’re amazed,” she says. “Gobsmacked, even. Awestruck, if I may be so bold. I suppose it’s only fair if you know my name. Allow me to introduce you to... me!” She gives a flourished bow. “Your new _casual acquaintance_ ,” she turns to Steven and winks, then looks back at you, “Spinel!”

The kid’s giving her the same look he usually gives you. She must be a handful. 

She’s staring at you, smiling with her arms held out and eyes too wide. She must be waiting for some kind of reaction. Give too little and she might get upset. Give too much and she’ll take it as encouragement. The only way out is to turn the tables.

“So you’re the… ‘Pouting Game’ Spinel?”

If her face could go white, it would; instead, she turns several shades of pink lighter and her pupils shrink to the size of a pin’s head. “She told you about the Pouting Game?”

“I lost the Pouting Game.”

“Ha! Yeah, White can really put you through the wringer on that one, huh? Ain’t that right, Stevie?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Be thankful that you don’t, and hope that you never will.” She claps him on the back and he forces a smile. “Oh! By the by,” she slides next to you and rests an arm on your shoulder. Your body stiffens at her proximity, and you have to keep yourself from leaning away. “I did _kinda_ maybe-sorta try to off this entire planet and everything on it, so, uh, just thought I’d clear the air there. Y’know, in case it ever comes up later.”

“No, no, I get it,” you reply, flatly. You look at Steven. “And that’s… common? This a common thing with your family?”

“Yeah.”

“Christ.”

Spinel steps back, wearing a sheepish smile. “So… no problems, then?”

“I think I’m already used to it.” You put a hand on your hip and scratch at the bottom of your chin. They’re both looking at you, but neither seems like they’re about to say anything. You want to ask about White, but that would mean thinking about White, which you’re already doing when you’d really prefer not to. “If we’re all sharing life-altering secrets--”

“I don’t think that’s what’s going on here,” Steven interrupts.

You ignore him and continue. “Then I’ve had a gun on me this entire time. Just thought I’d let you know. In case it ever comes up later.”

“What the heck is a gun?” Spinel asks.

“ _Not_ something that you need to know about.” 

“You might think so, Universe, but I’ll find out eventually.”

“Universe?” you ask.

“That’s my last name.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Like… legally?”

He shrugs. “Pretty sure. It’s a long story.”

“That’s fuckin’ weird.”

“And you think the rest of this is normal?”

“No,” you say. “I’m pretty sure I’ve finally lost it.”

Spinel laughs. “You think you’re crazy? You should’ve seen me back in my heyday. Let’s just say I wasn’t always the model citizen standing before you now.” She sweeps a hand across her head, drawing her hair back then letting it fall around her face. If she’s talking about that “I tried to destroy the world,” thing, then she looks a little too proud of herself for your liking.

“Hard to believe.”

“I know, right?”

“...Yeah.”

You don’t want to be here anymore. 

“Steven,” you ask, “where’s, uh…” You hold your hand parallel to the ground and raise it above your head, then get on your tip-toes to push it higher. He looks over your shoulder and nods his head up. 

You turn around, and see nothing but the empty clearing the three of you stand in now. The comfy log is a couple dozen feet away, but White is nowhere nearby. You hear the squeak before you feel Spinel lean on your shoulder again. You angle your head away as she tilts hers closer.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey?” you reply.

“D’you notice how we’re standing in the shade?”

That’s... what happens when you’re in a forest and the sun is out. 

But if the nearest tree is all the way over there…

Spinel must see the confusion on your face, as she smirks, her lips curling like those of a cat, and points to the sky above. You follow the trail her finger traced.

There is a giant robot floating in the sky.

Why?

“I wasn’t kidding,” Steven says, now standing next to you.

The right arm is yellow, and the left, blue, but the torso is White, and the head is too. It’s not just the color. That is a giant(er) robot-recreation of White Diamond.

Well.

Almost.

“It doesn’t have any legs,” you say. That is, of course, the only odd thing about this entire situation.

“Not right now,” Steven says. “I usually leave them parked in the desert.”

Your eyes are squinted and your mouth agape as your head slowly turns towards him. 

“What? It’s not like I have a garage.”

“And she’s in… that?” You point to the robot.

Steven nods. “All of them, yeah.”

Them?

“There are more?”

“She didn’t tell you about Yellow and Blue?” Spinel asks, still resting on your shoulder. “Ouch. Don’t tell that to them.”

“It never came up,” you mutter, staring above. How the hell is that thing staying up?

“Welp, time’s a-wastin’.” Spinel steps behind both of you and something makes a sound a lot like a very large balloon inflating very fast. You’ve no time to turn and see what before a giant pink mass sweeps your legs out from under you and catches you as you fall.

“What the--?” You’re interrupted by your own yelp when it starts to carry you up.

Steven stands above you, watching the robot as the two of you ascend on the cushioned object. 

It’s a hand.

You prod at the torso-sized fingers that bear you into the heavens.

You’re flying on a giant hand.

Why are there so many floating body parts out here?

From the wrist, you follow a thin, noodly arm out to--

Spinel?

“What in the goddamned hell?”

She’s floating next to you, whistling a tune with no melody. Either she didn’t hear you, or doesn’t care about what you have to say.

If that’s her arm…

And this is, somehow, _her_ hand…

Then…

You grip the edge of her thumb with an embarrassing amount of force and slowly peak over the edge.

“Jesus Christ.” You’re close to a hundred feet up and still going. Spinel’s legs are close to a hundred feet long and still growing. You can still make out the small, shrinking dots of pink that are her comically shaped shoes. 

You push yourself away from the brink and let out a breath, though your heart rate doesn’t slow. 

Gem bullshit.

“You seem surprised,” Steven says. His voice is deadpan, but you know he’s laughing inside.

“Go fuck yourself.”

And then, you’ve stopped. Momentum carries you up and forward, almost over the edge, but a well-place elbow stops your fall before it can begin. However, you’re still met with the undeniable truth of just how far up you are. 

A rather dizzying sight, that.

Where does she keep that much extra leg?

Why is she pinching your ear?

Her face is inches from your own, but her body remains where it was before. 

No one should have a neck that long.

“Aw, don’t look so scared, you little worry-bug. If you slipped, I could probably catch you!”

“Probably?”

She giggles and her head shoots back to her body, rocking it with the force of its impact. She cups her mouth with her free hand and shouts, “Hey! Open up in there! You’ve got visitors!” The last word is sung in a harsh falsetto that makes you flinch. 

Steven crouches down and whispers, “You should hear her when she’s really trying.”

“I don’t think I’d like to.”

“I don’t think you’ll have a choice.”

“Hey! Knock-knock!” Her fist inflates to twice the size of her head and she bangs on the robot’s nose. You have to cover your ears to shield them from the sharp, tinny twang it creates. 

There’s no response.

“Alrighty, then,” she says. “Ready or not...” she draws back the hand that holds you, far enough or you to see the entirety of the robot’s face. “Here…” 

She’s winding up for something…

“We…”

Why is lining up for its eye?

Steven holds his hands against Spinel’s and takes a runner’s stance.

Wait.

Oh God.

Your brief cry of, “OH NO,” is drowned out entirely by Spinel shouting, “Go!” and launching Steven and you directly at the robot’s pupil. It comes at you faster than you can scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone remember when not updating for a month meant this was on hiatus, and now it's just the standard upload schedule? Really funny, right? Ha ha.
> 
> Ha.
> 
> This is actually one half of a larger chapter, I just thought it'd be funnier to leave it off here. The next part should come out tomorrow or the day after.
> 
> Alas, poor Reader. They were never prepared for Spinel's antics or the full scope of all that alien fuckery. It's a shame they died after hitting White's robot-face at 134 miles per hour. Spinel can throw a mean right hook. Normally I don't do spoiler stuff, but the next chapter will consist of Reader's impromptu funeral and the characters' reactions to it. Everything after that will just be White sitting next to their grave, crying. 
> 
> On a serious note, I've tried keeping Reader's identity and physical appearance as undefined as possible to keep the accessibility of this fic as open as possible*. This question is directed towards everyone who has read it so far: How well would you say I've done this? Are there any moments that are too "descriptive"? I can't think of a better way to phrase it, but my own identity has colored my perception of the world and how I write about it, and although I've deliberately avoided giving Reader aspects too similar to myself, I feel like there are points in the story where it's bound to have slipped through. I'm not talking about Reader's personality here (which may as well be the complete opposite of my own), I mean something like describing the color of their skin or the length of their hair, both of which are some of the things I've specifically avoided.
> 
> *The only caveat to this is, obviously, Reader's attraction to White, but that's kind of a necessary function in a romance featuring White Diamond.


	22. Free Floating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T3phscjgc_A&feature=youtu.be&t=175

Death, it turns out, feels like floating. 

Not the kind of floating you knew in the final moments of your all-to-short life; that was crude, upwards, and too squeaky. 

This…

This is a gentle thing. It carries you down, though, to where, you do not know. Destinations seem such an insignificant thing now. 

You would have expected darkness, but all that surrounds you now is a vibrant, multifaceted light of infinite hues all shining with the same brilliance as a thousand stars. 

In the light, there are figures. 

Three of them.

Gargantuan in scale and impossible in their stature, they stand afront you, their backs turned.

Are they, then, turned towards the source of the light? Or is it they who radiate it?

Guardians, perhaps? Here to guide you to the next world? The next life?

One of them turns to you. She is all the warm, beauty of gold and the cold, pride of steel in the form of a woman. Where she walks, armies tremble.

Across from her, the next turns. She is the calm in the center of a storm; the depths of the sea in the midst of a hurricane. Where she stands, all shall quail.

Between them is the third, the tallest and brightest among them. She is the last to turn, and on seeing her face, one word alone can grapple with her majesty.

Perfection. 

She is perfect; utterly, and in every way.

When she commands, the cosmos bows.

They three watch your descent, and the magnitude of your insignificance becomes apparent under the cruel surety of their gaze.

A sound rings out like the chiming of a bell, and slowly, you stop. You touch no ground, but it is now that you notice a warmth behind you. Another presence.

If this is Paradise, then why is Steven still here?

“You passed out again,” he says, then drops you from his arms and walks away. 

You hit the floor with an “Oof!” and all the dignity of a soggy loaf of bread. 

The cold metal stings your cheek and the ambient light, comforting before, now irritates you, even through closed eyes. You push yourself from the ground with a groan, now fully conscious and aware of your surroundings.

This must be the inside of the robot.

That means those women are the Diamonds.

They look even bigger from down here. People don’t have any business being that big. Everything about this place, from the stature of its inhabitants to the almost featureless interior disagrees with your sensibilities. It’s not the incomprehensible horror you’d expect from the inside of an alien vessel, but everything about it feels… wrong.

Spinel steps out of a large whole in the wall-- one of two --and stretches a leg down to the floor, the rest of her following once her foot makes contact. She skips straight past you and Steven and stops at the feet of the three women.

The blue and yellow ones speak with her, saying things you can’t hear, focused as you are on the one who stands between them. 

She’s still a giant.

Beyond hope, you’d thought that when you found her next, she’d be back to her normal, slightly-unnervingly-taller-than-average height. You thought she’d be waiting for you, back at the log that was more comfortable than it had any right to be; that she’d point at Steven and laugh at such silly ideas as aliens and plots to destroy the world. You thought she’d wave him goodbye and the two of you could go back to riding across the country with a distant destination in mind, but no plans to reach it any time soon.

But she’s smiling at him.

She’s smiling at all of them.

She’s talking to them about talking about things you can’t hear; things that you wouldn’t understand, even if you could.

She’s the height of a building.

There’s a rock the size of a car embedded in her forehead.

She’s an  _ alien _ .

And all you can think about is how she isn’t smiling at you. 

“Aw, shucks. I knew you missed me.” 

You can’t say what it is that draws your mind back, but Spinel’s voice is the first tangible thing that registers.

“You weren’t gone for very long,” the yellow woman says.

Spinel holds her hands behind her back and leans forward, a sly smile slowly spreading across her face. “But you did though, didn’t you?” 

“Oh, Yellow’s only teasing,” the blue woman says. She scoops up Spinel in a gargantuan pair of hands and snuggles the smaller gem against her cheek. “Of course we missed you.” The yellow gem, who is apparently also called Yellow, rolls her eyes then reaches over and scratches Spinel under her chin, and if the face she makes doesn’t tell you she’s practically purring, the fact that you can hear it from here does. 

White stands above and behind them, clasping her hands over her heart and cooing at the sight.

Where it  _ should  _ be.

Her hands are where her heart  _ should _ be.

You don’t even know if she has one.

You tell yourself that’s the reason you turn away.

Steven watches them with a conflicted expression. It looks as if he  _ wants _ to be happy with what he sees, yet the sight of it still irritates him to degree beyond what it should. His face flattens when he sees you coming closer, but you walk by without any acknowledgment. 

The cold metal of the robot’s insides can be felt even through the thick leather of your jacket. You fold your arms and rest a heel against the wall as you lean against it. 

Despite your efforts to focus on anything else, your eyes are drawn back to White and the other three gems. Spinel is putting on some kind of one-man show while the others watch, clapping for almost everything she does. Are they humoring her, or is she actually that entertaining?

“They used to act like that with me,” Steven says. He rests against the wall on one shoulder, and scrolls through his phone as he speaks. “I never did anything like she does and I’d tell them to stop every time, but they didn’t.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“It’s not as fun as it looks.”

You scoff. “I don’t even know who those two are, what makes you think I want to be in the center of  _ that _ ?” You jab a thumb at them. They’re all singing a gentle melody to Spinel, who’s curled in a ball in White’s hands.

“Well, like I said earlier, that’s Blue,” he points to the blue one, “that’s Yellow,” he points to the yellow one, “and you know the other two. Blue, Yellow, and White are the Diamonds, and you’ve been watching them the entire time you’ve been in here when I know you’ve got one of these.” He holds up his phone.

“Whatever.”

“You know, you remind me of one of my friends.”

You don’t respond.

“Too  _ cool  _ for everything, always  _ above _ everyone else. Always trying to make a pose like that look natural.” He looks at your foot against the wall. You bring it up higher, just enough for him to notice. “He was a real tight-ass back then, but he’s pretty nice now. I think you’d like him.”

“And you’re trying to find out what my trigger is? What it’ll take for me to mellow out and become your new pal?”

“I’m trying to figure out how to bring up you passing out when you found out about the alien stuff.”

Your cheeks flush and the heat of embarrassment burns beneath your skin.  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

He clicks his phone off and puts it in his pocket. “Generally, I don’t tell people I’m only half-human. As long as I don’t go to the beach, I can keep it hidden pretty well. Still, there’ve been a couple times where someone’s found out. They usually take it pretty well. Maybe a, ‘Woah, really?’ or,” he deepens his voice, “‘Dude, cool piercing, can I touch it?’ And the answer is no, in case you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Good, because that time was weird. Someone else recognized me from my old Tubetube channel. Someone else told me  _ they _ were an alien, and I still don’t know if they were lying or not. But that’s it. It was all a little weird.”

You have no idea where he’s going with this.

“Then you found out. You were with White for weeks and had no idea. Then I told you and you looked like I had said she was a… a vampire, or something.”

You close your eyes and sigh.

Maybe talking to him enough will make him leave.

“There were a couple times… I was pretty sure something else was going on. I guess I didn’t  _ want _ to think she wasn’t human. Call it denial, I don’t know.” You scratch at an itch that isn’t there, then speak under your breath. “And ‘vampire’ was one of my guesses. Never even considered aliens.”

Steven holds back a smile. “Vampires aren’t even real.”

“And aliens weren’t either, until you showed up.” He laughs at that, quietly, and not as dismissively as you’d have expected. Both of you watch Spinel and the Diamonds simply talk amongst themselves as they pay neither of you any attention. You give Steven a sideways glance.“The hell are you acting all chummy for, anyway?”

He takes a moment before responding. “It was kinda funny seeing you get so freaked out over everything. I mean, at first. Maybe ‘funny’ isn’t the right word. Satisfying? Cathartic?”

“Do you have a point here?”

“You were a douchebag and it was nice getting some kind of comeuppance. Then it got sad, and I started to feel bad for you.”

“That’s it?”

“I don’t like you, but I don’t want you to do something stupid just because you found out your road-trip buddy is made out of light.”

You begin to squint as you process everything he said. “Light?”

He nods. “See all that? Hard light. Projected from her gem.” He points a finger to his forehead.

“How the hell does that work? How the fuck does that work with  _ you _ ?”

“I’m… not really sure about the specifics. My body is all human, but I can do stuff like this.” He holds his hand out, and a glowing pink hexagon the size of your torso appears in front of him.

“What the fuck?”

He closes his fist, and it disappears in a shower of sparkles as quickly as it came.  “Hard light.”

Gem bullshit.

“Steven?” A powerful voice asks. The two of you turn towards it, and Yellow says, “Are you showing off to White’s human? Tell them to come here, I’d like to have a look at them.”

He crosses his arms. “Earth isn’t my colony, I can’t just order people around like that.”

Colony?

She rolls her eyes. “Ugh, very well. Human, would you come over here?”

You have no intention of moving from where you are, but Steven holds out a hand, blocking you anyway. “What did I tell you about calling people ‘human?’”

“Well that’s what they are! It’s not as if I know this one’s name. What else am I to do?”

“Have you tried asking for it?” 

Yellow huffs and turns to White. “What’s its name?”

White looks directly at you and immediately, the beat of your heart quickens. She turns to Yellow. “We were discussing it just yesterday: I haven’t thought of one yet.”

“I thought they named themselves?” Blue asks.

“They take their clan’s name,” Yellow says.

“Humans don’t have facets, do they? There are so many of them. That must get very confusing.”

“I think they use smell.”

“Really? Is that true, White?”

“Steven calls them Rider,” Spinel says.

“Oh?” Yellow asks.

“I was expecting something longer,” Blue says.

“They like ‘Dark Rider’ more,” Steven adds, not even trying to hide a smirk.

Little bastard.

“That does sound more interesting.”

“That’s not a human name,” Yellow says. “It’s just two words.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be so quick to judge something you don’t understand,” White says.

“Ha! And that’s coming from you?” Yellow asks.

“We’re all trying to improve,” Blue says.

Steven and you watch each Diamond as she speaks her mind about how much the other two have and have not changed since Steven’s arrival. Spinel does the same while sitting on White’s shoulder, her legs idly kicking beneath her. It’s an argument, but you wouldn’t call it heated. It’s not even petty, really. The general mood of it is difficult to decipher aside from any lack of overt hostility. It’s like a sitcom family arguing over who needs to take out the trash, except they’re multi-story tall alien beings bickering over whether or not they’re racist towards humans. Speciest? Is there a word for that?

You lean towards Steven, still watching the Diamonds, and ask, “They get like this a lot?”

“Give them a couple minutes.”

You click your tongue and rest your hands in your pockets.

Only a couple of minutes?

You can do that.

So you do.

Then, a minute more.

And another after that.

They’re talking about “fixing colonies,” now. Apparently, they’re making good progress. 

Good for them.

Whatever “alien majesty” they had before has worn down to “large pretty women” and the amount of time you’ve spent staring up has started getting to your neck.

Spinel seems content enough to watch them talk, and Steven has already started browsing his phone again. You could do that too, but if White sees you, you want her to know that you’ve got something to say. The only problem is that she hasn’t even glanced in your general direction.

When the conversation takes somewhat of a lull, you take a few steps forward and the chance to speak up then say, “Hey, Dee--”

Still looking away, she silences you with a lazily held-up finger and starts talking to Blue about clouds.

Alright then.

Not in the mood to talk.

You skulk back to the wall and grind the heel of your foot against the cold, metal floor.

You keep watching, and it’s then you see that Blue and Yellow both have gems in the center of their chests, just below where their collarbones would be. If, like the heart, they even have them. Apparently, they’re made out of light. Do they have light bones? Are light bones heavy?

Fucking aliens.

Fucking  _ aliens _ .

Fuck.

You aren’t sure whether or not you’re more surprised by that or grumpy that White won’t talk to you.

When did  _ that _ become important?

She’s with her family, of course she’ll want to talk to them. She hasn’t seen them for weeks; the two of you were talking… a bit ago. You aren’t exactly sure when. It was back when she left you passed out on the ground with a biologically-bedazzled teenager and a psychopathic juggalo. 

Did she know you were okay? Did her gem bullshit alien powers let her know that you didn’t just die in front of her? She doesn’t seem to care right now. But, you’re up and walking alright, so would she know passing out is a bad thing? It’s not as if it’s the first time you’ve done it in front of her. Damn shame you can’t blame it on cheap wine, now.

Maybe you’ll ask her later. Maybe you won’t.

All you want to do right now is get out of this robot. 

Spinel got disqualified before she even entered the competition. White and her… sisters? Cousins? 

Lovers?

Your face begins to flush.

Whoever they are, if the last time you tried talking to them is anything to go by, they won’t be any help. 

Steven it is.

You step next to him, and he spares a passing glance in your direction before looking back at a string of texts you don’t bother to read.

“How do I get out of this thing?” you ask through the side of your mouth.

“Bored already?”

“I’m just so overwhelmed by the majesty of it all.” Unconsciously, you start to tap your toe against the floor. “I’ve got shit to take care of and I don’t want someone to steal my bike while I can’t watch it.”

“White can get you off.” He points his phone towards her.

You look at her, but make no move forward.

Steven turns to you and raises an eyebrow. 

You force a swallow. “Can you ask her?”

“What, are you scared of her now?”

“She didn’t say anything the last time I tried talking to her.”

Steven stares at you then shakes his head. He slides his phone in his pocket and keeps his hands in them as he walks towards the trio of too-tall women. He stops next to one of White’s toes-- the damn thing is nearly as big as he is --and looks back at you, wordlessly asking for confirmation. You shoo him along and he shrugs. “Hey, White,” he says.

The Diamonds all stop their conversation and look down. “Oh! Steven,” White smiles, “I didn’t see you there. What do you need?”

He points a thumb back at you. “Dark Rider is scared of heights and wants to get back on the ground. Think you could bubble them out?”

White looks at you. Your throat goes dry. “Leaving so soon?” 

You can’t think of anything to say, and so you say nothing at all.

“Alright, then.” She doesn’t seem offended, at least.

“Actually, I’ll go too,” Steven says.

“Oh,” Blue says, “But Yellow and I have been working on adding a new mural of the four of us near White’s quarters. Would you like to see it before you go?”

He tries to hide a grimace that only you seem to pick up on. “No.”

Blue hums to herself. “Next time, then.”

“I thought we agreed to that the last time?” Yellow asks.

“I’m sure he’s just waiting for it to be finished,” White says. “We really shouldn’t keep him.” A large, white half-bubble appears beneath your feet, lifting you several inches off the ground. The only movement you feel comes from a lurching in your stomach, but it’s almost enough to send you crashing back to the floor. With shaking legs, you manage to keep your balance. Steven walks over and steps on with you; the bubble doesn’t react to his weight at all. “Go along, you two, and be nice to each other. It’s a long way down.”

“Goodbye, Steven!” Blue says with a wave.

“We’ll be seeing you soon,” Yellow adds.

“See ya, Stevie!” Spinel cups a hand around her mouth and shouts at you, “Sorry for trying to murder your planet!” as the bubble encases the two of you, trapping you in a void of white light. The last thing you see before it closes it White looking at one of you, smiling. You can’t tell which.

The bubble floats higher off the floor-- just how high, you cannot tell --then shifts to the side without changing its momentum. All together, it’s somewhat disorientating. You fight the urge to hurl and your vision blurs; right then you vow to kill you yourself if that bastard lets you pass out three times in one day.

Steven doesn’t seem to care at all. Gem bullshit, probably. 

Neither of you says a word as the bubble descends, nor when it opens and drops the two of you on to the normal, very-much-not-metal earth. Though you stand in the shade, you can feel the warmth in the air, and a breeze against your skin. There’s a smell you didn’t notice before: the grass must have been cut earlier today. The sky is blue, the leaves are green, and only the clouds are white.

You roll your shoulders and crack your neck, then exhale through your nose. The sound draws Steven from his phone for a moment, but the only response he receives is a blank side-eye from you. He gives a look of indifferent acknowledgement, then slides his cellphone into his pocket and walks away. You watch him from the corner of your eye until he passes the tree line, reaches the road, then turns around a trunk and leaves your view. 

You look back up at the robot that is, unfortunately, not a hallucination. The cold facsimile of White’s face looks ahead, far above you, but a gnawing, twitching voice in the back of your mind tells you that the gaze of those empty, lifeless eyes will fall on you at any moment. Never looking away from its face, you take one step back. 

Then, another. 

Another after that, and then you start walking backwards away from the machine. Each step you take causes your heart to beat faster and your breath to come in sharper hitches. It’s only when you’re sure that it isn’t moving that you turn and begin to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't think of a good title.
> 
> Ol' Dark Rider seems to be handling that whole "alien" thing pretty well, huh? 
> 
> It feels weird not having three paragraphs of stuff to put in the notes. 
> 
> See y'all in the next chapter.


	23. That String of Texts You Didn't Bother to Read

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's that string of texts Rider didn't bother to read.

[ < Contacts ] 1:21 p.m. [ 36% ]

[Connie 😍😍😍]

  
  
  
  
  


< How did it go?

Better than I thought it would >

I’m fine and White’s doing okay >

She knew abut the illegal stuff. 

She isn’t doing anything wrong, 

but she isn’t stopping it either >

*about >

< So that’s still good, right?

yeah >

< What about her friend?

They didn’t know White is a gem >

They didn’t even know what gems 

are >

< WHAT

< How?!?

I don’t know, but I feel kinda bad. 

They passed out twice >

< Are they okay?

yeah >

_Sent: 1:14 p.m._

\----------------------------------------------------------------

I think I was wrong. They aren't 

a bad person >

They’re just grumpy >

In general, or because White is 

< a gem?

Both >

But I think they’re handling it 

okay now >

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My main goal with this fic is to grow as an author, especially when it comes to writing longer narratives. So if you ever think that something in the story (be it pacing, the development of an arc, or characters not acting like themselves, etc.) then please don't be afraid to let me know. 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who has shared their thoughts on the story so far, both good and bad. This story wouldn't have gotten past chapter one without you.
> 
> Is that too sentimental for a fanfic? The answer might surprise you.


	24. Assorted Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be kinda spoilery, but chapter theme:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kvazBqAlx58
> 
> You'll know when it happens.

“I am not handling this okay.”

The dollar bill doesn’t respond.

“And look at you, all fucked up like that. You’re almost ripped in half and still look better than me. I mean, have you seen me? Probably not, I don’t think you get out very often, but trust me pal, the last five minutes have not been my best look.”

Running through a public park while screaming about aliens isn’t exactly the traditional image of a calm and composed individual. You found some poor bastard just trying to walk his dog and pointed at the giant flying robot, but the son of a bitch didn’t even care. Maybe he thought it was a balloon? Or you just missed the memo and literally everyone else on Earth already knew about the aliens. You never had the chance to ask him, since that dog started barking at you and you saw a faux-diamond on its collar. That was enough to get you running again, and after that, you didn’t stop until you found your bike. 

Now, you’re sitting in a parking lot talking to a scrap of money because you don’t have the guts to commit to running away. That’s not to say you haven’t tried. You’ve lost count of the times you’ve held the key shaking hands, unable to find the courage to turn it. The last time, you actually did. You even got as far as putting your thumb against the ignition switch. But each attempt ended the same, with you groaning into the dashboard and sliding off the seat, down onto the pavement and looking for company in an inanimate piece of paper. 

You let your eyes fall back onto the bill and wait for it to give you the encouragement you need.

He’s a stoic motherfucker, you’ll give him that. Maybe a dose of stoicism is exactly what you need? A final hardening of the heart that will allow you to leave all this gem bullshit behind and get back to your normal, not-at-all pointless previous way of living. 

You suck in a breath and stand, brushing off your pants and straightening your jacket. Swinging a leg over the seat, you bring yourself onto your bike and, holding your hand steady, insert the key into its slot, then turn it. Your left hand holds the clutch against the handlebar as your right thumb runs along the edges of the switch. 

All you have to do is press that little button, shift gears, and ride the hell on out of here.

So why won’t you do it?

Why can’t you do it?

You run your eyes along the dashboard, drinking in the details of every notch, switch, dial, and number; details that you have long since memorized. You’re procrastinating, of course. Searching for any reason to stay, or for something to finally tell you that leaving is the only choice that remains. Your answer does not come from in front of you, but instead, something you see in the corner of your eye.

Or, more accurately, what you don’t. 

Slowly, your head turns, looking toward the sidecar. Your eyes trace the outline of the woman who isn’t there. Even in her absence, you can see her smile, hear her laughter, and feel the touch of her hand on your shoulder. You follow the form of her face, neck, then body, down to her leg, and you see her helmet, sitting on the floor. Gingerly, you take it and set it against the dash, running your hands along the warm, shaped metal. The black primer is chipped on the harshest corners and edges, and faint spots of rust dot the center of those points. The silver ‘WD’ and diamond you scribbled on its forehead have faded, almost to the point of illegibility. Looking at the thing brings back more memories than you can process. A groan slips past your lips, and your head falls against the helmet. You wrap your arms around it and pull it against your chest, then slide your leg over the seat and slump down against the side of the bike.

The asphalt of the parking lot would be scalding if not for your jeans, though it still warms your legs to an uncomfortable degree. A ray of sunlight shines directly on your eye, keeping you from opening it. The other is shielded from the sun, and you find no motivation to move. The dollar bill is folded over itself, obscuring half the left-most side except for a sharp corner beneath the crumpled, coiled snake. It’s next to the toe of your boot; close enough that you’re able to push at it until it opens, then flatten it out against the pavement. You already knew what would be there. 

Another goddamned diamond.

“Oh, fuck off.” You let your head fall back against the bike and grumble a string of words with no meaning.

“I… didn’t mean to intrude.”

Your eyes snap open, and the sun blinds you. Your first instinct is to throw a hand up to shield your face, and it throws the helmet with it, rolling it several feet away. At the same time, you struggle to stand, stumbling your way up and pulling against the bike until you’re on your feet and facing the voice.

Your vision clears, and White Diamond stands before you at the edge of the treeline, just before the dirt turns to pavement. Her hands are clasped together below her chest, and she watches you with an expression that seems like worry, though for whom, you aren’t sure. Your own face must seem comical in comparison: wide-eyed and mouth agape as your hands begin to shake and your feet root themselves in place. The longer you look at each other, the tighter your throat becomes.

She’s a normal height, now. At least, as close to normal as she can be. But it isn’t normal for her, is it? 

“I’d hoped to talk,” she says. “About earlier, I mean. You left so suddenly. I wanted to know why.” She stops speaking, as if waiting for a response. Even if you knew what to say, the words would have no chance of coming out. “Though if you’d prefer not to…” 

When it becomes clear that you won’t respond, she looks down and nods. 

She turns away, but only manages a single step before you say, “I was talking to the money.” White turns back. It’s obvious that that isn’t what she was expecting you to say. “There’s money. On the ground.” You tilt your head towards it, not looking away from her. “I was talking to it. Not you.”

A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “Did it offend you?”

“Kinda.”

White’s hands fidget and she takes a step forward. “As I said, I wanted to talk--”

“Didn’t seem like it earlier,” you say with more bite than intended.

“What?” she asks. You’d say her face pales, but… 

“Back on the ship,” you say. “Y’know, when you were…” You hold a hand above your head and flick it up towards the sky. “God knows, all I wanted to do was talk, and you just…” You pantomime White holding up a finger like she did on the ship, then question her with a look when she says nothing.

“I hadn’t spoken with Yellow and Blue since I left with you,” she manages to get out. “I just wanted to talk with them first.”

“About what? How good you are at _not_ destroying Earth now?”

Realization dawns, and she closes her eyes, muttering something you can’t hear. She begins to speak in an awkward, stilted tone, her eyes still closed. “There is nothing I can do that will make up for my prior actions against your people. I am trying to improve, though I do not ask for your forgiveness, as it can only be given if you think it--”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?”

White’s eyes snap open. Her hands have stopped their random movements; now she holds them in place, opening and closing them without a rhythm. Her eyes close again, and she begins to speak, her voice stuck in the same, strange cadence, but faster and higher in pitch. “My knowledge of Earth’s customs is still growing. If I have offended you in any way, I--”

“No, stop, stop it! I don’t know what this is, but I don’t give a shit about any of that. Not the planets or the stupid… That’s not what I… I just want an _explanation_.”

“For what?”

“You! For you, White! I don’t…” you press a hand against the side of your head and try to focus on anything except the thing in front of you. “I know it’s my fault, I know you told me, and I should have realized a long, long time ago, but I don’t… I didn’t. Now that I do, I just… I look at you and…” Your arms fall slack against your sides and your face drops. “ _What_ _are you_?”

White’s face is twisted with worry or panic or both, but her brows knit together in a growing look of confusion, and she says, “But… Steven already told you. I’m not human. I’m a gem.”

“What the fuck is a gem?! I don’t know what that is! I don’t know what any of this is! I don’t know what hard light is, or why you can grow, or stretch like a fucking… stretchy... pink shit, or giant fucking robots… and… and…”

White reaches out and steps forward, but you step back and hold up a finger, stopping her. Your heart throws itself against your ribs and you fight for every breath. “And I was passed out on the ground, and you left me with that pink _freak_ who almost killed me, and you just coddled her like a fucking baby, and I don’t what the fuck is going on with any of that, but _apparently_ she tried to destroy the planet too, and aliens have been real this entire fucking goddamned time and nobody thought to tell me!” Your voice reaches a crescendo, and your final words are nearly a scream.

You stare at her, breathless. The spell that has fallen over you begins to fade, and a tiredness sets in. “Everyone except for you. You told me. Right from the start. I just never listened.”

White’s lip quivers, and tears pool at the edges of her eyes. Is it an expression of shock she wears? 

Confusion? 

Pity? 

Pain?

“And now you’re crying. I went and made you…” You groan and run your hands along the top of your head, then slump down onto the bike’s set. “What a fucking day,” you grumble. The bike’s key remains in the ignition, already turned. 

White’s still watching you. She hasn’t said anything. You doubt that will change.

“Dee, I’m…” You bring your leg over the seat and grip the clutch, then hold your thumb against the ignition switch. “I’m gonna go back to the motel. I just need some time to…”

She whimpers, and the moment you hear it, your eyes begin to sting and an invisible hand closes tight around your throat. You drown out any further sounds with the harsh growl of the motorcycle’s engine, and, without looking back, you pull the bike out of the lot and onto the open road.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Ruined.

Ruined.

It’s all been ruined.

That single word echoes through her mind, mocking every action she has taken and shattering any illusions of progress she thought she had made.

It’s only when her navigator has gone, when the final sounds of their earthly machine have faded into the distant chirping of birds that the first tears begin to fall and a choked sob tears its way from her throat.

She doesn’t understand.

She can’t understand.

It had been unfortunate before, that such a detail had escaped their notice; that the shock of it could cause them such harm. But Steven had assured her that they would be fine. They couldn’t be hurt, not with him there. And even if he wasn’t, they would have been alright. He told her so himself. Steven is human. A gem, yes, and a Diamond, too. But human as well. He understands them, doesn’t he? Was he wrong? 

Spinel had done something. White does not know what. Something to warrant being called such a cruel name, but White cannot imagine what it could possibly be. She had done something terrible in the past, but she had changed, hadn’t she? Hadn’t they all? 

They fix things now. It is their role, their way to atone. 

Prior to finding Steven, White Diamond’s acts of creation came solely from destruction.

To construct a colony, a planet must be destroyed.

To create new gems, other life must be spent.

To maintain order, freedom must be sacrificed.

But that was then, in the past. Things are different now. They heal things. With their powers, they mend the body, soul, and mind. With their power, they stop the creation of new colonies, new gems, and the enforcing of the old order to fix what has already been built. Old colonies are restored, their fauna and flora allowed to flourish as best it can. Old gems, cast aside, broken, or forgotten, are found, welcomed back with open arms, and helped to heal. The new order has replaced the old, casting down the tyranny of the past and opening the universe to the freedoms of the future. 

But with freedom comes uncertainty. And uncertainty is something White Diamond cannot allow. Though she no longer holds the same power she once did, and no gem, no matter how small, can ever be controlled as they once were, could she not, and _should_ she not, act as a beacon? A guiding light in these new times? 

Isn’t that why she’s here? To understand them? These new times, the people who are a part of it, and the one who started it all?

It was Rose Quartz who first walked this planet and found new meaning through it. It was her footsteps White came here to follow; to walk in them and see this world as she had. It was an ambitious goal. One that, so far, has eluded her.

White knows that she _should_ care for the Earth. She should care for its beauty, its children, and all those who walk upon it. She knows it is what Rose felt and what she has a responsibility to feel as well.

It’s aggravating, then, that the most she can garner is a passive interest; a sort of cold curiosity, the same that a scientist might feel for an experiment long forgotten and written-off as failure that instead continues to function. It is with much aggravation that she recognizes it as what a tyrant might feel for her wayward children that would dare to rise up against her. 

White Diamond is more than capable of experiencing emotion. She knows love for her family: Yellow, Blue, Spinel, and Steven. She loves the boy, even if he might not return her affection. She holds hope that one day he will. She cares for her fellow gems in her own distant, dutiful way. She fears for their safety, and she celebrates their triumphs. She knows well the feeling of shame, and there are not enough stars in the sky to hold all her regrets.

Yet, for the Earth, and all the things that she would have once called “lesser lifeforms,” she can feel nothing but that cold indifference that she has grown to loathe. 

Had things gone differently, had she taken a single turn, or left but a moment later, this entire trip would have ended in failure, and been ended outright. It was a chance encounter that has kept her on this path, and it was that encounter that resulted in the single greatest success of this new era, and it was her actions today that have left it... 

White Diamond takes her eyes off the road for the first time since her navigator left. There, on the pavement, is her helmet. It is a crude, poorly made thing, and it feels weighty and uneven in her hands. The paint is chipped and rust dots its surface. The insignia on its front, her own initials written in a human script, is faded and worn.

Ruined.

Her navigator, her shining light in this strange, new world, has left her, wounded by her own hand. It is they alone on this planet who she truly cares for. Their bond is the first thing she has created that was not built on the destruction of something else, and now she has left it ruined.

Tears fall unbidden upon the helmet’s surface, and sobs wrack her body.

Her navigator had asked her if they were friends. She had said yes, as Steven had once explained to her what they were. But how could she honestly know? White Diamond has never had a friend before. All those she has ever cared for were created by her, either through her power directly, or the actions of those she controlled. 

In all creation, they were the first to care for her not because she was White Diamond, chief matriarch of the gems and the God-Queen of their empire, but because they considered her a friend.

But now?

White Diamond does not understand what has gone wrong.

She does not understand how she has come to care for a human so much, nor even why a human would care for her enough to be hurt by what she’s done.

She does not understand how to fix this.

But she will try, for it is what her navigator would do for her.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


The heavy thud of boots against carpet marks your path as you pace around the motel room. Your breathing is ragged and irregular, and your hands are clasped together behind your head as you stare at the floor.

Alright.

You’ll be the first to admit it: that could have gone better.

It could have gone worse, too, but leaving her alone in an empty parking lot on the verge of tears isn’t exactly the nicest way to ditch a friend. You’re not entirely sure if there _is_ a nice way to do that, but if it exists, it probably isn’t that.

In a way, she kinda did the same thing to you. At least you didn’t leave her with a serial killer.

But, still, you weren’t being entirely unreasonable, right? 

Aliens.

Aliens!

That’s a pretty big deal!

Anyone would freak out about that, right?

Well…

Except for all the people who didn’t. According to Steven, there were a couple of those. A couple of jackasses. They weren’t travelling alone with one for half the summer thinking she was human. Well, you thought she was human most of the time. Admittedly, you had some doubts, but…

Whatever.

Whatever!

It doesn’t even matter! Who cares if she’s not from Earth? What difference does it make? It’s not like she’s tried to lay any eggs in you or take your blood for youth serums. She might not be human, but she’s still a person, right? She’s got emotions. She might not be good at communicating them, but plenty of people aren’t. God knows you could work on it.

So, she screwed up once in the entire time you’ve known her, and in response you left her… crying… alone… and with no way to get back here.

There’s the space ship, but what if the other Diamonds left after she got off?

What if she doesn’t have a way to contact them?

Oh God, what if she thought you left for good?

She could be leaving for Beach City on her own, now.

How long did it take for her to find you after she came to Earth?

She could already be going with someone else!

You freeze in place and your breath hitches in your throat.

Even if that isn’t true, what’s your best-case scenario, here?

If she isn’t still sad, she’ll probably be angry. If she’s angry, then she won’t want to talk, and if she doesn’t want to talk, then what hope do you have of hashing this out? If you can’t do that, then this whole thing is over and--

Okay. That one isn’t the most positive. Really, the best-best-case scenario is that White is already outside the door waiting to say, “Let’s just forget about all that, yeah?” and then the two of you can go back to riding across the country like today never happened. As nice as the idea might be, you’ve already begun to file it away in your “Literally None of That Will Ever Happen” folder of mental fantasies, right next to the one filled with everything you thought of when you first noticed how large White’s thighs actually are. 

“Bad time to think about that,” you say to yourself.

If mentally evaluating the situation won’t get you anywhere, then your only option is to blindly charge in and hope for the best. You bring your arms down and clench your fists, then turn to the door and take three short breaths before clearing the distance, taking it by the handle, and throwing it wide open.

You don’t even make it a full step before you run face first into someone’s stomach and fall flat on your ass.

It doesn’t take very long for you to recognize who that is.

“Hey... Hollywood.” You try to put on a smile and a friendly face, despite the awkwardness of your position on the floor. Is now a bad time to throw out some finger guns? 

Probably.

You do it anyway.

For her part, White seems to be keeping her composure, compared to when you saw her last. She’s trying to, at least.

It doesn’t last.

What might have been a “Hello,” quickly devolves into a mess of tears, sobs, and half-baked apologies that never reach the point of specifying what she’s apologizing for. She has her helmet in her hands; the face of it is damp from older tears and now soaked with new ones. She holds it out towards you and bawls something that you don’t understand.

By now, the shock has worn off, and is rapidly being replaced with pity and confusion. You get off the floor and nod along as she continues to cry and turn the helmet in her hands. She takes a moment to breathe-- you push aside the thought questioning why she even has to --and say, “Hey! Hey, it’s alright!” You put your hands on the helmet, slowing her movements, until she stops and looks down at it, then you. The tears still flow, but the only sound she makes is a drawn out sniffle as her breathing begins to slow.

“It is?” she asks in a nasally, wavering voice.

Your head tilts to the side, and you begin to nod, now unsure of your own words. “...Yeah? I think so? I mean, you look… It’s…” You shake your head clear and look White in the eyes. “I mean, what’s wrong?”

Her brows push together and she frowns, even as her lip quivers. “You,” she says.

Ah.

It’s nice that she’s concerned, but…

“No, no, I’m fine.” You let go of her hands and wave it off. “It’s fine, really--”

“No it’s not!” You’re stopped from turning around when White grabs your hand with both of hers. The helmet falls to the floor with a clunk. You’re locked in a loop of looking between White’s hands and her face; she wipes away the tears with the back of one hand before placing it over your own, takes a gulp of air, then says, “I saw how you looked when you left me--”

“I know, that was a dick move,” you interrupt. “I’m sorry--”

“No, _I’m_ sorry!” She holds you tighter and steps forward. You can’t fight the urge to step back, but she closes the distance again. “That’s why I’m here. To apologize. Set things right.”

She looks down at you with desperate eyes, her body less than a foot away from your own. Despite what she said, she adds nothing else. You give her a moment longer to continue. When she doesn’t, you say, “Well… you apologized. So…” You pull her hands off your own and move away towards your bed. She watches you the entire time. You sit down on the mattress and scratch at the back of your head. “Look, today hasn’t been the best for… either of us. There were a couple of screw ups. Y’know, both sides. Uh… I learned something pretty important.” You gesture towards her and the gem on her forehead, which is, apparently, also her? “I’m still processing that, I’ll be honest. But we can… move on. I guess.” 

“No.”

“Huh?”

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.” She looks at the ground as she speaks. “I was going to come back, they’d tell me what’s wrong, and I’d fix it. I’m supposed to fix things now. They helped fix things for _me_. I was supposed to…”

You don’t get the chance to ask what she means.

“I have no idea what I’m doing.” Her voice is flat, dampened by a realization you can’t hope to understand. “Not here. Not on this planet. Not with the others. Not with you.” She looks back at you with wide eyes. “I thought I’d come here and set things right, but I have no idea how. I don’t know what to do, what to say, or even how to feel. I don’t even know how you feel, only that I hurt you. I’m not supposed to hurt people anymore.”

You’d say she slumps to the ground, but “slump” would be a disservice to the amount of control she manages to exert over what would, in any other case, be a completely undignified action. She sits there, silent, as new tears form. 

You can’t let this happen again.

You push yourself off the bed and close the door with a gentle nudge, then seat yourself on the floor a few feet in front of her. But it’s too far away, something tells you, and you scoot yourself closer; close enough, almost, to touch. 

You want to reach out and take her hand, but something about the action, with where you are, here and now, feels too close. Too intimate. Even still, you have to hold yourself back and grip your knees instead. “It’s… You made a mistake. So did I. But you didn’t _hurt_ me.” She just… left you with the person who almost did. Sure, what she did in the spaceship was a bit of a dick move, but haven’t you been dismissive of her before? Aren’t you the genius who ignored half a summer’s worth of signals she was sending about the whole, “I am literally not a human being” thing?

“No,” she says, “this is what I’m talking about. I came here to help you, but now you’re helping me instead. Just as you always have. And how have I repaid you?”

“You don’t have to pay people back for--”

She clenches her fists. “With nothing but pain.”

That’s… a little dramatic.

“There have been times throughout this journey where I have felt consumed by myself. Overwhelmed with emotion. In the times you were there, you always had something to say. Words that, no matter how small, helped to right me, even if I did not understand their wisdom when you first spoke them. How is it you did this? How did you always know what to say?”

“I… Well, I just…” You purse your lips. “I was kinda making it up as I went along.” You shrug, and nervously watch for her reaction.

She gives a sad smile that you wish you weren’t so familiar with. “If only I were so skilled.”

You have nothing to say, and you hate yourself for it.

“Steven would know what to do…”

You keep your doubt about that to yourself. White laces her fingers together, and by the (figurative) flash in her eyes, she seems to come up with an idea. She opens her mouth to speak, but stops herself, then looks down and nods, before looking back at you and saying, “As I’m sure you’ve realized, being a gem affords me a great many different powers. In the past, I did not always use them for good reasons. One of them was the ability to control other gems. I could force my will on them and take command of their physical forms.

“That was, of course, a terrible thing, but I eventually learned that this power could be used in reverse: another gem could, if we both allowed it, take control of me and use my voice as their own.” She explains the concept slowly, watching you as you listen.

None of that is what you expected her to say, and she sees the confusion on your face.

“I have no reason to believe that a human would be compatible in this process, but we may be able to achieve similar results without it. Pretend that I’m you, and tell me how you feel.”

You’re not entirely sold on the crux of the idea-- if talking about your feelings was the solution then you should have solved this already --but looking at White and imagining that she’s _you_ pushes it beyond what’s possible.

“I dunno about this, Dee.” 

Her face drops.

“It’s not that I don’t think it’s a good idea, it’s just… It might be…” You lean onto the palms of your hands and look around the room. “Maybe if we had a mirror…?”

“Oh,” she says. “Is that all?” She holds her hands at her shoulders and looks you up and down, her eyes going over every inch of your body. “Keep in mind, this is a bit different than simply having Yellow change my form’s size, so you will have to bear with me for a moment.”

“What are you talking about?”

She closes her eyes then clears her throat as a bright light emanates from her gem, and her entire body begins to glow. 

It’s nothing like what she’s done before: now it seems as if she’s pure light in the shape of a woman.

Then, things get strange.

The flowing drapery of her cape and clothes disappears in a flash of sparkles, and her physical form starts to shrink. Your eyes follow the bright glow of her gem as it shifts down, further and further, until it’s level with your own forehead. The glow doesn’t fade, but her body shifts as new shapes take form.

A collar appears around her neck and her arms and figure are hidden under new apparel. The pillar heels she wore before are replaced with thick, heavy boots, and her face shifts in shape until it starts to look like…

She just…

She’s…

The light fades, and you sit dumbfounded across from a mirror image of… you. She just turned into _you_. Sure, there’s a giant rock in your forehead, and the color-scheme still doesn’t have any actual color, but…

“Holy shit.”

Her eyes open and somehow you’re still surprised by the diamond thing. She blinks a few times and pours over the details of her new form, turning her hands beneath her gaze. White looks back at you, touching her new face as she studies your own. The intensity of her look sends a warmth creeping into your cheeks that you blame on embarrassment from feeling so exposed. She traces the curve of your jaw, trailing down the length of your neck until she reaches the collar of your jacket. She readjusts the position of her own to better match it.

“Would you say this is close?” she asks. “I’ve never altered my form to such a degree.”

“It’s… something, alright.” Something does feel off, you realize, and it’s not just hearing her voice come out of a copy of you. It’s not exactly what you see in the mirror and it takes a few seconds for you to understand that it’s because you aren’t looking in one. Mirrors… mirror things. White has replicated you perfectly; this is closer to talking to a living photograph or a clone. Other than the obvious differences, this is what everyone else sees when they look at you. It’s novel, and more than a little strange. Par for the course when it comes to White. “So you can just,” you mimic squashing and stretching a ball of clay in your hands, “do that?”

“Shapeshift? Oh yes, every gem can. Well, not _all_ of us. Gems from later eras were left without the ability during their creation to save on critical resources; others suffer from defect--” White cuts herself off with a cringing expression, then grimaces as she struggles to speak. She rolls her eyes, flicks her hand and continues with, “They suffer from certain challenges that may prevent them from accessing the fullest usage of their powers, shapeshifting being one of them.”

“Huh.” You almost understand what all that means. 

“Oh, but if I keep this up I’ll be getting ahead of myself. To put things clearly: no one understands you better than yourself, so who better to talk to about what you’re experiencing? However you feel, whatever you wish to say, anything that must be done to set things right.” She purses her lips and frowns. “So long as it does not involve putting my head through a pillar. But you don’t have access to it, and I see none around us, so I believe we may begin.”

Is it even worth asking?

You shake your head and drum your fingers against your knees. “Uh…” You’re still not sold on this idea, but what’s the alternative? Bottle it up inside while trying to “figure it out” yourself only to watch everything blow up in your face as you suffer through an entirely preventable scenario?

You should probably get this off your chest.

“Well. Um…”

White smiles at you, and seeing your own face with that expression does nothing to help clear your mind.

“I guess we can start with…” You hold out a hand towards her. “All this. I mean, you’re…” Talking to _her_ isn’t the point of this exercise, right? If she’s supposed to be “you,” then… “Well, uh… ‘she’s’ an alien. From outer space. And that’s just… a lot. Like, I was getting an idea that she wasn’t human, but ‘alien’ never even made it on my list, and I don’t know why it’s so… surprising? I really should have seen it coming. Especially since she, y’know, _told_ me about it.” You rest your elbow on your knee and your chin in your palm. “And I guess it’s just surprising. _Really_ surprising, don’t get me wrong, but… not enough to cause all this.”

You look up at your mimic and find them mirroring your pose, but with what you assume is a deeper frown than your own. 

“And that’s because of… I guess, what happened after. You find out your road-trip buddy is an extra-terrestrial, you pass out in a public park, and then they just leave you. Not _alone_ , but with someone that they knew you didn’t get along with, and then someone else you’ve never even met who’s just… a lot to take in. Then there’s a giant robot, you get thrown at the robot, you pass out again, wake up in a teenager’s arms in front of three giant women, and the only person who you actually know doesn’t even want to talk to you.” The heart rate increases as you go over what happened, and by the time you finish speaking you’re talking almost twice as fast.

Their expression becomes more solemn.

You breathe, trying to calm yourself. It doesn’t work.

“So… you leave. And then you freak out, get scared of a dog, shit like that. _Then_ she shows up and wants to talk, but you don’t even know about what, and it’s too late for talking at that point and all you want to do is ignore everything and pretend like it didn’t happen, but you _can’t_ , because every time you look at her you just get reminded of what she is. And it _scares_ you, and you hate that it does since you know what she’s like, but there’s a voice in the back of your head asking you if that’s true and you just _don’t know_ anymore. And you want to believe that she’s the same…” 

You struggle to think of a word that fully encapsulates her, and you can’t help the smile that appears thanks to the first that comes to mind, even as the rest of your face falls. “The same goofball you met back at a giant thumbtack, but… Every time you look at her you wonder how much you really know. You start to realize how little she knows about you, since you never gave her the chance to find out. And you know that the time you have with her won’t last forever, but you don’t want it to end.” You choke up on the last word, and your eyes start to water. “You’ve been alone for so long, and then you see her with all these other people who she cares about and who care about her, and you realize that…” You force yourself to swallow, then look at White and drop the act. “You’re the only one I’ve got.”

In a flash of light, White shifts back to her normal form. Her face is twisted with sadness and concern, and her fingers are laced together in front of her lips. 

With shaking hands, White reaches out to take your own. You only watch, offering no resistance. She holds your hand, running a thumb along the back, looking at you, with tears, once more, welling in her eyes. White opens her mouth to speak, but before either of you can, she pulls you forward and into a hug. 

You freeze, and your entire body goes rigid. Her chest presses against yours and her lips almost touch your ear. She runs a hand across your back and whispers, “I’m here.”

Her physical form gives off no warmth, but the silken smoothness of her touch and the sound of her voice sends a shiver running down the length of your spine. You can’t help the shudder that overcomes you. The intensity of it forces your eyes shut, and you bury your face in the crook of her neck, clinging to her back to stay grounded. You breathe in, desperate for any sign of her beyond her touch, as a voiceless urge tells you to hold tighter and to bring yourself as close against her as you can.

But she pulls away. You have to hold back a groan as the comfort of contact leaves you. You stare up at her with lidded eyes and lean into her touch when she rests a hand on your shoulder. “You said you didn’t know anything about me.” 

You can only shake your head.

“Would you like to?” With the approval of your nod, she takes her hand from your shoulder and clasps it together with the other and rests them on the floor between her legs. She half-smiles. “If you don’t even know what a gem is, then I suppose it’s best we start there. We are inorganic artificial life forms created on the planet we know only as Homeworld. Gems are not born as your kind are. We must be created, and this creation comes at the expense of other life. I will not bore you with details, but you must understand that where gems are made, life will never flourish again.”

She says this with grave tone, suiting the matter at hand, though you hear a familiarity in her voice, and with what you already know, her role in this matter becomes more apparent.

“Where this occurs, gems can no longer be produced,” she continues. “These facts formed the basis of our empire and resulted in the most important series of events in our people’s history. Every gem was created with a purpose; a role to fill in our castes. Individuality was a crime to be punished. Each gem was a part of our imperial machine, functioning with the greater purpose of spreading our influence throughout the stars and colonizing more planets to facilitate the production of more gems.”

“Who only existed to make even more,” you say.

“Yes.” 

“Kinda sounds like us. Humans, I mean. Swap out ‘gems’ for, I dunno, money or some shit and you’ve got the same idea.”

“Perhaps. Though you may claim innocence in the broader workings of your race, I must bear the full responsibility for the actions of mine, for it was under my command and by my will that all this was done.

“I am White Diamond. _The_ White Diamond. In authority and power I had no equal, and among my kind I am kin only to three others. You have met two of them, Yellow and Blue, while the third you only know. When she was created, we called her Pink Diamond, though she became Rose Quartz when she gave up her role in our empire to protect this planet and take a stand against me.” Guilt hangs heavily over every word she says.

For being a dead person you’ve never met, Rose Quartz has had an awfully dramatic effect on your life for the past few weeks. Or, your entire life, you suppose, if she’s the reason planet Earth isn’t a graveyard.

“She must have been very brave,” you say. It’s a poor attempt at comfort, but not saying anything seems worse.

“She was the kindest. The most passionate. And, yes, the bravest. She was the best of us.” White chuckles, bitterly. “Though that sentiment does little for her now.”

“You loved her a lot, didn’t you?”

“Less than I should have. And what I did, I never showed. I suspect that she died thinking I never even cared. For all I didn't do for her, and all the terrible things I did… Would she really be wrong?” There’s a spitefulness to her tone that you can only assume is directed towards herself.

“White--”

“Don’t. I recognize that look of yours. The pity. Or is it sorrow? I don’t care. You’ve comforted me before, but I do not need it now. My faults are my own, and though I am loath to speak of them, they are things that you deserve to know. I hurt people. I was responsible for the desolation of entire planets and the destruction of my own subjects. I thought myself changed, but today, I’ve hurt you.” 

She looks tired.

“It might not have been your intent, but you are the first creature in this universe who ever knew me for who I was trying to be, rather than who I was. I thought I had changed, yet I hurt you all the same.” Her head falls, and she tries to look at you, but can’t seem to take her eyes away from the floor. “I’m sorry.”

Silence falls between you, and all that can be heard is the whirring of the old air conditioning unit beneath the room’s window. 

She’s waiting for you to say something. But what are you supposed to say to that? To any of it? What are you supposed to tell someone who’s confessed to being an instrument of genocide who drove their loved one to suicide? Are you going to look her in the eyes and honestly say, “It’s not your fault?” 

What about, “Hey, I’m sure you didn’t mean to!” 

Or, “They’re probably just overreacting, it’s not a big deal.”

You might not have the complete picture, but from what you can tell: it’s her fault, she meant it, and it’s a pretty big deal. What are you supposed to say to someone who has done something wrong and knows it? Are you allowed to forgive her for actions that hurt someone else?

“I used to do… bad things,” you say, already cringing at the way you phrase it. White looks at you, an eyebrow slightly raised. “That stuff with the ATMs, y’know.”

“But you’re still doing that,” she says.

“Right. Right. But I was doing it before, too. It, uh, used to be more than that, though. Banks, jewelry stores… more banks, really. It’s a lot easier than movies make it out to be. Insurance fraud was a big one. Tax evasion. And I’m gonna be honest, I didn’t have some kind of moral awakening like you, I just stopped because people started catching on. And I’m still kinda doing the tax evasion bit, but it’s more because I don’t file taxes at all…”

Based on the look you’re getting, she isn’t seeing the point.

“Okay,” you continue. “So, I guess what I’m trying to say is… Um… I don’t think anything I just said is entirely comparable to what you did, but you don’t have to be some kind of saint to be around me. You might not have known me when I did that stuff, but I still did it. And if that’s enough for you to decide you don’t want to be around me anymore, that’s fine.” You shrug. “But it’s like you said before: I never knew ‘White Diamond, the terrifying intergalactic conqueror.’ You _were_ that, but the only person I’ve known is a woman who’s trying to understand something new and weird and kinda scary, but you’re trying anyway, and you’re doing it because you did something wrong in the past, and you’re trying to make up for it now.”

You take a breath in, then force it out, reach forward, and grab White’s hand. 

“Look. Today was a bit upsetting, it had some hiccups, and, yeah, some of what you did kinda hurt. But if the worst thing you ever did to me was leave me alone with a moody kid and a weird clown, then I think that’s a pretty big improvement over blowing up planets.”

“We never blew them up,” she mutters.

“Regardless, I don’t think it’s my place to say whether or not you can be forgiven for that. But I can forgive you for what happened earlier, and I do. If the fact that I’ve been around you non-stop for half the summer doesn’t say it, then I will: White Diamond, you’re my friend, and I don’t want that to change.”

A blush appears on her cheeks. It’s faint, but immediately noticeable due to the contrast it has against her porcelain skin. The longer you look into each other’s eyes, the deeper it gets, spreading across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her eyes are wide and her lips part just enough to see the perfect teeth behind them. You don’t even try to hold back your smile; the blush on White’s face deepens even further and begins to glow. A shy smile of her own appears and she looks down, trying to hide her face.

“I guess it’s my turn,” you say before pulling her into a hug. For the briefest moment, she freezes in place but then melts into your touch. She wraps her arms around your shoulders and rests the side of her face against your own.

“You’re warm,” you say in slight disbelief.

“What do you mean?” She doesn’t move her head, and her voice being so close tickles your ear.

“Before. You’ve never given off any body-heat. I guess you wouldn’t have to, but… Is it from the blushing?”

“I can stop if--”

“No. You don’t have to, it’s… I like it.”

And so, she doesn’t stop glowing, and she doesn’t stop warming you, and neither of you lets go of the other. 

It’s an interesting question to ponder: whether or not someone who's done what she has deserves forgiveness. If it’s even possible for them to be forgiven. By individuals, you’ve no doubt. But she’s hurt more than individuals. What of those who don’t forgive her? Those who can’t? The dead cannot forgive. Do they care?

“I care about you,” White whispers into your ear. Another shiver runs along your spine, and you don’t know if it’s from what she said, the way she said it, or both. 

But you know now that they aren’t your sins to forgive. Absolution may come another day, but this one is yours.

You pull her closer and make no plans to let go.

“I care about you too.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After going back over some of the feedback from the previous chapters and thinking over what I've written (but not re-reading THAT, because I would die) I've come to the realization that I maybe kinda sorta forgot to actually make Rider into the asshole they were supposed to be. The idea was that they'd be a closed-off jerk who gradually opens up over the course of the story and learns to accept White as something more than a burden that they have to cart across the country, but the actual character I put on the page is just a nice person who does nice things and is also kinda lonely. It's too late to make any big character changes now and I'm not going back and editing anything in the older chapters,* but it's pretty odd how there was such a big disconnect over what I thought I was doing vs what actually happened. Goes to show how valuable feedback can be; I never would have noticed it if you guys hadn't pointed it out.
> 
> *However, and I think I've mentioned this before, I have an inkling of an idea to do a "2nd edition" of this story once I've finished all the other projects I'm working on. That would give me time to separate myself from the story and come back with a fresh set of eyes to bring it in-line with my actual idea. Technically, this is still the first draft, even though each chapter goes through half a dozen (or more) revisions before I actually post them. If I ever get around to that, it would be uploaded as a separate fic because I don't want to mess with this one.
> 
> But things are looking up for ol' Dark Rider; definitely an improvement over what happened earlier. And I hope none of you have any big moral hang-ups about tax evasion, because I think it's hilarious.


	25. Gorigon vs Reptillar

**LATER THAT DAY...**

  
  
  


The sun has set, the lights are off, and the blinds are closed. You sit at the edge of your bed, with White on the floor just below you, the tallest of her hair spikes mere inches away from your chin. Both of you watch the television as a movie plays in black and white. The light of the screen throws long shadows across the walls and ceiling. There’s a crackle to the film’s audio, owing to its age and the poor quality of the broadcast. 

_A man and a woman stand alone in a dust-filled alley, their hands clasped together as they look into each other’s eyes. Gunfire and the whine of plane engines can be heard in the distance, slowly growing louder._

_“You know that I have to do this,” he says in a smooth, deep voice._

_“But Reptillar is too strong! If the fighter planes can’t stop him, what can?”_

_“There’s only one way to find out.” The man turns away and walks toward the sounds of carnage, but the woman grabs his wrist before he can go._

_“Erik, I have to tell you something. Ever since you gave me these bomb-ass mittens… I’ve been in love with you!”_

_He blinks twice. “Don’t make this weird, Mimi.”_

“She should have told him sooner,” White agrees.

“It’s more dramatic like this,” you say.

The film playing was chosen by neither of you. Both too drained from earlier for any real effort to be put in, the two of you decided to watch whatever was already playing when the television was turned on. You’d find something about it to enjoy, quality be damned. In this case, it was the simple, cathartic pleasure of watching big monsters trash a miniature recreation of Empire City.

_“...so I have to do it!” Erik says._

_“But you’re just a man!”_

_“No… not anymore. Stay back Mimi, and watch as I reveal my giant monkey form!” He takes off down the street, leaving Mimi behind as tears fall from her eyes. Erik sheds his jacket, then shirt, as hair covers his body and his teeth turn to fangs. He grows in height and loses more and more of his human appearance until he stands as tall as the surrounding buildings and looks just as monstrous as the fish-headed dinosaur that he stands against. The two creatures lock eyes. Erik, now transformed into the titular Gorigon, beats his chest and bares his fangs. Reptillar stomps his feet and slams his tail against the ground, toppling a nearby building. The air is filled with each creature’s deafening roar, and then they charge._

You watch the ensuing battle, but your mind is focused on another matter. You tilt your head and ask, “So, when you’re, like, a hundred feet tall, that’s normal for you, right?”

White turns at the neck and looks up. “Yes, why?”

“If you can shrink down to be almost-me-sized, does that mean you can grow that big?” You point to the monsters on screen.

“It would be a terrible waste of energy, but, yes, I suppose.”

Neat.

“So, being this small… Does that take energy too? You can shrink more, why not stay like that?” 

White purses her lips. “As I am now, my form consumes no more energy than normal. Yellow,” she looks directly at you, then asks, “You remember her, don’t you?” You nod, as you literally met her today, and White continues. “Well, she can alter a gem’s physical form. It’s ‘default state,’ so to speak. It’s a unique power of hers. I had her change mine to something more compatible with the human world.”

“You’re still two heads above the tallest people I’ve ever seen. Why not go all the way?”

“I don’t like the thought of being shorter than a human.”

That’s it?

Wait, is she being serious?

You chuckle, but on seeing her face and realizing that it wasn’t a joke, it turns into a slow, full-chested laugh that almost sends you over the edge of the bed. You fall onto your back and hold your stomach as you struggle to catch a breath between your laughs.

“What?” White asks. She sits up on her knees and rests a hand on the edge of the bed. “What is it?”

You let your eyes close and shake your head as you stifle your laughter. “Funny. That’s funny.”

“Hmmph. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You’re already very small.”

You bring yourself up onto your elbows. “Compared to you.”

She looks at the back of her hand. “And half the gems in the galaxy. Ninety-nine percent, if I asked them to make it so.”

“Talk to me when… Uh… When gems can…” Your voice peters out. White raises an eyebrow.

“When gems can what?”

You frown. “Gonna be honest. I’m not really sure where I was going with that. Pretend it was something funny.”

White laughs to herself; the light, lilting sound is enough to bring a smile back to your face. She turns to the television. Her hair blocks most of your view, but your interest in the movie has already gone, and it has been a very long day. Sleep seems like the single greatest thing in the world right now, but there are things that you’ll have to take care of beforehand. You roll off the bed and go to your bag, then sit on the floor and rummage through it, searching for your toothbrush. You find a bobble-head, an old t-shirt you could have sworn you threw out, and a passport for someone you don’t know from a country you’ve never heard of. Tomorrow might be a good time to get this thing organized.

“So… You’ve got a spaceship, right?” you ask White, still looking through your bag.

“Yes. You were just in it today.”

“...Yeah. I know. But… It’s gotta be pretty fast, right?”

“Would you like the specifics? I have charts.”

“No… Well, maybe, that sounds kinda cool, but what I’m getting at is… You don’t _need_ me to get to Beach City.” You hold yourself still as you wait for her answer.

“I’ve never needed you.”

_Mimi flinches and holds a hand over her mouth. “Good God, that must have hurt!”_

“I could have seen every major landmark on Earth in less than a day if I wanted to. But I didn’t, because I don’t. It’s as you’ve said: This is an experience. It might not have been the one I was expecting, nor what I’d hoped it would be, but I’m committed to seeing it through. That means with you.”

There’s a funny feeling in your chest that you can’t quite name. The room seems a lot smaller, and you feel very warm. Your hand, now back to rummaging through your bag, closes around your toothbrush. You stand, clear your throat, and say, “Well that’s good to know. Because I’m… Uh… Committed to finishing you. With you. To finishing with you. At the same time.”

She blinks twice. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Not even you know what you meant by that.

“I’m gonna go brush my teeth. Let me know if the ending is any good.”

White nods and returns to the movie. You go to the bathroom to take care of your nightly routine. 

When you return, White tells you that it was “Alright,” but not much beyond that. You wonder what it must be like to judge a film’s quality when she has, as far as you know, only seen a handful of others to compare it to. 

Despite White’s affirmation of her desire to continue the trip with you, Beach City is still an awfully long way away, and there are so many places to see before it. The subject of movies has you thinking about one in particular. As the two of you settle into your respective beds, you turn to White before she closes her eyes and say, “Hey, Hollywood.”

“Hmm?”

“You wanna go there?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was just a short bit cut from the last one's outline since I couldn't find a way for it naturally fit in.  
> Just to clear up any potential confusion: As far as I remember, Hollywood in the SUverse is supposed to be in the state of Kansas, rather than California. As of this chapter, White and Rider are near the border between Colorado and Nebraska.  
> I'm not really familiar with how Ao3 formatting works, but I really wish I could get this to look how it does in google docs, because the font and lack of paragraph indents hurts me on a spiritual level.


	26. This isn't a real chapter, but I need help with (Y/N) stuff

So... I just found out that their are web extensions that let you replace certain terms with custom ones. Y'know. Something like (Y/N) with... your actual name. So instead of just _imagining_ your name whenever that comes up, you can have a computer replace it with the real-deal automatically. That's pretty convenient. Kinda wish I'd known about it.

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy as hell to have found this and I'm already imagining all the ways I can use it in a future fic (custom pronoun support!!), but holy shit do I feel stupid right now. 

Is this a commonly known thing? Do people use them a lot? I've been in the fanfic community for an entire decade and I've NEVER heard of this before. Did I really manage to avoid learning about something so simple for so long?

For an update on this fic: I'm going to keep it going as it is, simply because I'm already 70k+ words deep and don't feel like changing course. That means no Reader name-drop and "they/them" pronouns whenever Reader is being discussed from someone else's PoV. I will DEFINITELY be implementing (Y/N) content in future fics, with a note at the beginning of each one telling readers what, specifically, needs to be replaced. 

Right now, I'm thinking something like:

(Y/N) = Your Name (bold concept, I know)

(Xe) = Subjective Personal (He/She/They)

(Xer) = Objective Personal (Him/Her/Them)

(Xers) = Possessive Personal (His/Hers/Theirs)

(Xer2) = I couldn't find a name for this kind, but I hope you know what I'm talking about (His/Her/Their)

...and then lowercase ones to account for capitalization. For an example of how this would work, I would write something like:

"(Y/N) grabbed (xers) scarf. (Xe) put it on (xer)self and cleared (xer2) throat."

Which, using masculine pronouns and a name as an example, would be replaced with:

"Tod grabbed his scarf. He put it on himself and cleared his throat."

Ignore the clunkiness of the prose and you should get what I'm going for.

Are people already doing this and I've just missed the memo? I literally don't know anymore. If you have any tips or advice, I am very open to hearing it, because I am in completely uncharted territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use Firefox, so the one I got is  
> https://addons.mozilla.org/en-US/firefox/addon/foxreplace/  
> but I know Chrome has them as well.
> 
> Oh, and I guess I can post this for the Hits now.
> 
> https://youtu.be/X5uYAwErEWE?t=36


End file.
